The Iron Emperor
by DhertyDan
Summary: Now discontinued due to many historical errors. A rewrite will be up soon, for the sake of the story, and keeping up with realism, under the name "A Song of Blood and Iron."
1. Chapter I

AN: I own nothing. This my first story. Enjoy.

(This chapter has been updated and edited for the sake of the plot. And also, get rid of loose ends.)

* * *

 ** _L'EMPEREUR DE FER_**

 ** _or_**

 ** _THE IRON EMPEROR_**

By

 **DhertyDan (AKA JacooziPrime)**

* * *

 **Chapter I — A Strange New World**

 _"I came. I saw. I civilized."_

 _— Napoleon of House Bonaparte, 298 AC_

* * *

 **Napoleon**

Napoleon Bonaparte was shivering under the cover of what was his overgarments, if you can even call it that. A green Russian greatcoat with thick fur linings and an ushanka consisted of his present attire. He knew well that it was not enough to shield him from the frosty winds that overcame what was left of his Grand Army. The men were hungry, battered, sick, and exhausted. They tire of this long march, this long retreat across the Russian frontier. If only had Alexander faced his defeat like a man, instead of depriving him and his entourage the proper supplies, food, and water for his soldiers and horses. And lastly, his victory.

The cold became more and more unbearable by the second. He was now relying on the sole strength of his right arm to remain balanced on the makeshift hiking stick one of his officers had provided. Tried as he might to look around the scenery—two columns of tall trees they walked betwixt, down towards a road made of nothing but snow, mud, manure, and wet soil. Behind him, he heard the disorganized march of his commanders and senior officers, as well as the agonizing whims of the long fatigued men. A thousand wails, a thousand yelps for God to bring mercy upon them. Their cries had remained unanswered for a long time. As boots made thumps on the soft ground, the wind howled frivolously and harshly, biting the bare skin of his face and inducing more pain that he had ever imagined.

 _When had things gone down this way?_

Well, it certainly started with his stubborn drive to force the Russians to heel, to follow the terms of his Continental System, and reduce the British of their economic functionality. Their Tsar, sadly, has broken his word and continues to trade with the _British_. _It was always the British_. Those bastards from hell could go back to their inferno for all he cared. Nothing would satisfy him more than to humiliate George IV and his cronies by parading them naked through the streets of a theoretically captured London. Napoleon lost his patience and threatened to use force, a war, further decreasing any chance of reviving a French-Russian alliance. He decided the only way to get the Russians' attention was war, and war he had. Despite the protests of his own Marshals, and even the counseling from his own wife, Empress Marie Louise, Napoleon refused to listen to their advise. Amassing an army of 685,000 soldiers, 1,400 artillery pieces, and 200,000 horses, the invasion begun on late June of 1812.

His arrogance, he did not realize, was a main factor to his defeat. Napoleon simply figured that with a much more experienced military force and advanced strategies, the Imperial Russian Army could be down to its knees. What he did not expect was the sudden change of tactics used by the Russians. The scorched earth policy denied Napoleon and his Grand Army the much needed resources for the fighting, mainly to fill the bellies of his men and pacify the qualms of stallions that numbered two hundred grand. He did not set up any proper supply line system since he figured, by merely taking tribute from the Russian rural population, he would be able to feed the Army. Then again, no supply system would have worked anyway. His heavy wagons were not accustomed to dirt roads of the undeveloped rural Russia, compared to the cobbled pathways of Austria and Prussia.

And what annoyed him the most was that, regardless of a victory, the Imperial Russian Army always managed to retreat and escape his grasp. There were no victories. The Emperor's plan was plain and simple: he would capture Moscow, request for a quick peace, and finally, march his tired men home, rejoicing and feasting with loyal citizens. Alexander and his dog Kutuzov were all too happy to reprieve him of his much deserved achievement. He, alone, had conquered Russia. However, no peace had come. In quick succession after the Battle of Borodino, he occupied Moscow for some time. His men had been reduced to a mere hundred thousand.

Sitting in the ashes of an ancestral capital with no foreseeable prospect of a Russian capitulation, idle troops and diminished supplies due to use and Russian operation of attrition, Napoleon had no choice but to move on the retreat. And in winter too. He had figured that, from the start, that the Army should have never left. There was ample stores left in the capital and food hadn't come up as issue until now. Then again, would he have faced a siege instead of the extreme weather? Yes. At least, there were cannons and fire involved. It would be warm. But, they just had to march on—the withdrawal, so far, was unsuccessful in the long run. The army, now reduced to a 1/6 of its size, moved hastily. His honor and glory was tainted with Russia interference. Soon, the mighty French Emperor would have his due.

Napoleon was pulled out of his thoughts as the wind blew more violently. He knew well that this was not natural, even for a Russian winter. This was something else far more malevolent than he anticipated. If this weather goes on any longer, they could be stranded in the middle of a snowstorm, a blizzard, without proper encampment or fortifications to warm themselves, let alone, defend against the Slavic menace. Napoleon would not reach his goal of reaching Berezina River by the end of the day. The stronger currents seemed to have answered his fears. They needed to stop, lest he cause the downfall of is own entire armed forces.

"Sire," a familiar voice suddenly chimed in as Napoleon continued his walk. "The men, Sire. They are exhausted. Shall we make camp?" The vocal message came along with the loud huffing of an Arabian stallion, as well as the sound that resonated from it's metallic shoes. Then again, it was muffled by the mudded ground. Has his hearing gone sensitive again?

Marshal Michel Ney observed carefully as to what his Emperor would respond with. It was neither ridicule nor refusal that he got. It was more of a grunt. Napoleon was aware of the conditions the environment had presented. It presented an excruciating circumstance that no action will resolve. The Smolensk road would be their home for the night.

"It seems like it, my dear Marshal." Napoleon replied, still looking onward. By now, he was head of the army, the rest of the column formations following behind him. "There is no way we'll be able to pass the river at such river. We'll lose more men than we would a single day in this infernal wasteland. Any news on the rear?"

"None, Sire. Nothing noteworthy, though, the men continue to protest. It seems that their demands have fallen on deaf ears. Our own officers are busy trying to fight off the bitter cold," Ney mused, slightly chuckling at his own joke. Napoleon made no effort to respond, nonplussed by the attempted jape. Ney continued nonetheless, a little disappointed with himself. "They want to leave much of the battery and artillery pieces... to dine on the horses."

"The cavalry lives, Marshal." Napoleon quickly rebutted. "Without them, we won't have scouts. Well, for that matter, scouts fast enough to alert us of any nearby enemy belligerents." Ney took it upon himself to think of the consequences. Upon weighing the possibilities, the Marshal figured it would be wiser to let the horses pull the cannons. Movement creates heat, heat creates comfort. Comfort allows the horses to move with ease. Plus, on the other side of things, they immediately have a viable way of travel, even in the severely temperatures.

"I trust you on this judgement, Sire," Ney finally composed himself to speak. Napoleon nodded and returned his endless gaze on the Russian frontier. Ney decided to return to the rear of the army for the time being, pulling the horse away from Napoleon's way and marching all the way back to the elements. The Emperor noticed a small snowflake flap graceful from above, which was followed by another, and then another. He lost count on how many had already fallen, the sky giving him no quarter. Bringing its full wrath upon the French Grand Army, the storm began to pick up.

* * *

 **Napoleon**

The march continued without further difficulty. As Ney had said, the Grand Army was halted in its tracks, as per order by the Emperor himself. The men, relieved that they could rest their gangrened feet, huddled en masse amongst themselves to help protect against the oncoming blizzard. They lacked any tents or sleeping bags. Why? Most of the equipment the men carried were hauled off into train carts. Unfortunately, their lives were made harder as constant assaults from partisan forces on their weakest flanks pressured them to diverge from many of their planned routes. The dilemma was as intolerable as the weather. The splits in their ranks allowed such irregular armed troops to continually harass and molest smaller divisions, particularly train battalions, bringing them to this particular situation. One that Napoleon had continued to engrave into his already clouded mind. Never mind that it was dark. It would have been all for naught.

 _A thousand had perished during that day, in that march alone. How many more will follow?_

The Emperor tried not to think about the ghastly moaning and wails of his men, Napoleon himself already occupied by the frigid weather. Even with the confines of his pavilion, there was no way of keeping the cold out. He was waiting, pondering what would happen next. Should this blizzard be any more intense that he and his officers sought out, it would be the end of them.

The man in question was seated on a wooden chair, beside a table of similar design and material. Pieces of paper and parchment lay strewn across the flat surface, themselves dancing along with the winds. It barked and scratched the tent's dangerously thin covers, always making that flapping sound. It was all Napoleon could hear. The several oil lamps hanging about were the last bastions of light and heat in the midst of the dark, long night.

Napoleon slowly closed the lids of his eyes, surrendering himself to the cold. His life flashed before him, remembering the reality that he was about to leave. He thought of his son, his wife Marie Louise, and his brothers and sisters. He thought of his Marshals, his loyal Old Guard, the hundreds of battalions of soldiers that has rallied to his cause for liberty and freedom. He came to France, he saw France, and he conquered France. He conquered hearts and minds. _He_ had conquered the world./

 _The true heir to Octavian!_

Before long, he fell unconscious, ignorant of the world around him. As darkness loomed around his mind, a great flash of light was in happenstance with the raging snowstorm. No soul was there to witness the Grand Army's quick disappearance into nothingness, seemingly wiped off from the face of the earth.

* * *

 **Napoleon**

Napoleon jolted wide awake, returning to his dull reality. He glanced around for awhile. The tent was as empty as ever, complete with his bed and a small garment chest. To his left was the wooden table from last night, still apparently disorganized. He told himself he'd fix it later.

The Emperor suddenly noticed a lack of wind. The tent was still, silent, and unmoving. He figured that the blizzard had simply stopped and passed over. Napoleon shook his head in dismissal. None of it mattered. The Army needed to continue moving. Should the climate be in favorable conditions, they could cross the Berezina with what pontoons they had left. He thanked God in Heaven for answering his prayers.

Napoleon stood from his rested position and adjusted his overgarments. It seemed warmer, but not any less colder. It still felt like the same, a winter that had reduced his army to nothing more than a foraging horde of disheveled Frenchmen. _Damn them_ , he thought. _Damn Alexander._

After adjusting his coat and fixating his ushanka into an appropriate and comfortable position, Napoleon made the effort of departing the more-than-sufficient encasement of his temporary quarters. The cover unveiled a surprising, if not, baffling sight—the men were squabbling among themselves as if they had gained back their health before the invasion. In all honesty, he himself felt a little better than yesterday. They talked in close quarters, trying to conserve as much heat as possible, but the morale has remarkably improved. Other men, meanwhile, were working on menial tasks and their respective jobs. Some of them drilled, others were patrolling the many rows and columns of tents that other lucky souls were able to gather, and the majority merely went about their business: doing nothing in particular.

Napoleon was unfazed by this sudden lack of movement. After all, all they have been doing is marching and stopping and marching and stopping every so often. He was simply pleased, that at least, the blizzard didn't get in the way of losing numbers or hope breaking among the surviving Grand Army. However, the Emperor was not without his doubts. There will come a time, and very soon too, that food will become a problem. Dissent, rebellion, and corruption can descend the Army into a mass schism.

He begun to walk. Napoleon desired to inspect the battery cannons and munitions, as well as the available rations. He hoped they'd make it to the river without Russian intervention. He was forced out of his thoughts when Marshal Ney, with several other commanders, approached him. He expected an immediate report on this morning's casualties, or any news from the morning scouts. Of course, he hadn't quite expected the news he had received.

"Sire," Ney started grimly, "the road, Sire. It's gone."

Napoleon stood silently. He was shocked, but his face made no attempt in reflecting his emotion nor his thoughts. It was just empty, his eyes glaring at Ney. "How exactly is it gone, Marshal Ney?"

"Our morning patrols saw no sign of the Smolensk route. Nothing but snow fields for at least a few miles. There are nearby banks of forests, evergreens Sire. The far east show mountain ranges and hills. The maps were not in correspondence with any of our observations." Ney replied, his voice shaking. He was afraid, Napoleon realized this. They were lost and the Russians could attack them any time of the day, if they wanted to.

The Emperor was overcome with tense tranquility, thinking of what to do. What could he do? He could do nothing. If the road, as Ney claims, disappeared into the snow, and the terrain has changed dramatically, then there is no hope for the Army. If they were lost, the Russians would surely crush them by the end of the day. Until he realized, there could be a chance.

"And the river, Marshal," he begun, trying to keep his peace, "have you found the river?" Napoleon's hope was destroyed as soon as he noticed those eyes—one that contained guilt and betrayal.

"The Berezina is not here, Mon General."

The Emperor kept his composure before it could erupt. "I thank you, Marshal, for the news. I want an immediate logistical report on our munitions and supplies. We should prepare for departure, two to three days, give and take. These are your orders, Marshal. Do not fail me." With that, Ney nodded in compliance and turned around, followed by the other Marshals and officers. Napoleon was left to his own accord, to which he promptly retreated back to the confines of his tent.

He was enraged.

Napoleon thrashed the chair and table to his left, but not before ripping apart his maps and plans. He threw the pieces of paper into the went ground, kicking the table and chair in simultaneous order. As the table toppled over, the ink pot spilled its contents onto the ground, creating a thick, blackened puddle. The oil lamp spilled onto the floor, going out. By then, not enough fuel was able to ignite the tent ablaze. He grabbed hold of his bed's mattress and blanket, proceeding to throw it into the rough flooring. Recoiling his leg to boot the wooden bed frame into oblivion, his fury-induced rampage was interrupted by the arrival of one Jérôme Bonaparte, the youngest brother of Napoleon.

"Jérôme?" he asked, Napoleon's rage quickly replaced with fragmented thoughts and a befuddled mind. What on Earth was _he_ doing here?

—x—X—x—

The youth, in his late twenties, returned an identical facade that signified his own confusion. His thin lips grew to a smile, and then evolving to a grin.

"Napoleon? You're here!" Jérôme yelped, quickly lunging to embrace his older sibling. Napoleon was still shocked, his mouth gaping. He quickly removed himself, pushing the man away, his ferocity resurfacing.

"What are you doing here?" the Emperor questioned, or rather interrogated, which caused Jérôme to back off, suprised at his brother's sharp tone, the snarling still bright as day.

"I know, I know. I left for Westphalia," Jérôme confessed, "yet here I am. One night, we made camp, a snowstorm blew over—"

"And it brought you to me," Napoleon finished for him, "and here you are indeed."

The Emperor shook his head. "And you dare show yourself after your treason?"

"Treason? Is that what you call it?" Jérôme answered, having the gall to actually talk back.

"Yes! You abandoned Mir Castle against my orders! You disobeyed me! Your Emperor! Your own brother!" Napoleon threateneningly countered, his anger still pervading and reverberating when the echo of his harsh words. Jérôme was immediately subjugated, defeated, unable to mount a defense or justification for his actions. It was true that Jérôme had hastily left the Grand Army after the Battle of Mir, Napoleon knew of this, as his scouts and ushers alerted him while on the frontlines. The Emperor was appalled, of course, and he took the offense to heart. It was desertion—one of the highest treasons.

"Can you, with all your ingeniuty and audacity, explain yourself before I send you to the iron cages as my prisoner?" he asked, trying to find a reason not to imprison his own brother. It would be a great blow to the reputation and integrity of the Imperial House of Bonaparte to have one of it's own members tried for a crime, treason no less, and by the leading political and military figure of all of the World.

"The.. the argument we had... I loathed your orders, to stay in Mir Castle, and not with my wife and family. I wanted to return to Cassel, to my kingdom—"

"And what? Spend the rest of your life there in extravagance and excess? You've taken things too far, Jérôme, you know that. This was war. You needed to experience it. You cannot run away," Napoleon offered, and be knew it struck true. The younger French Prince looked down, in an exceedingly losing stance, unable to support his own actions.

"I'm... I'm willing to admit my mistake... But you cannot blame me for that, Napoleon. You cannot... you cannot..."

Napoleon knew exactly what Jérôme alluded to, and it wasn't an easy time either. Their father, _Nob._ Carlo Maria di Buonaparte, Patrician of Tuscany, had died, when Jérôme was only three months old, barely able to talk and walk. It was at that time that his older brother, Joseph, took on the title of the family's head, before Napoleon himself led his family to the highest echelons of human society. A struggle, indeed, that left many of Napoleon's younger siblings fatherless and without coin. They were penniless when the old bastard left them, and due to his frivolous spending, the rest of the Bonaparte's were left poor, left to the bitter mercies of a God that did not care. And now, just as when they were in the height of their power, Jérôme had forgotten to be humble. That had to be gone, as soon as they started moving again.

"I've been blind, 'tis true, for all of my fears and wants. I feared for my family, and I yearned for them. This war... it was not mine to fight. You yourself knew that Napoleon. Marie wanted to you stay with her. The same I could say for my beloved Catharina..." Napoleon was confronted with the sight he had never seen before—he younger brother's eyes wattered, and coincidingly, reddened as he brought out his feelings. A single drop flowed from his pupil to his cheeks, creating a fine, curving streak across his face.

"She was so faithful, you know... So beautiful. Me?" A sad chortle followed. "I was a sorry excuse for a human, to betray her and fornicate with others. I had feared our separation, but she turned a blind eye. She truly did love me after all of my sins..."

"The war? Suicidal. I did not want to leave. You forced me, though, and I did. I played war, yet, I knew nothing good will come out of it. You never invade the Russian bear during the winter. Never..."

"After our quarrel, and when you left Mir to me, I was quick to leave, and brought my entire retinue. I burned it to the ground. We rode hard for Westphalia. When news of your defeat spread, no one would host us, not the younger brother of the 'infallible' Emperor, not when supporting the losing side of war could land you disaster."

Napoleon heard, and had heard enough. He couldn't allow Jérôme to continue with his ramblings, the ramblings of a defeatist. Love was the death of duty, and he had to assure that as of right now, duty was more important that anything.

"Swear to me," Napoleon dictated, "swear to me again, that you will serve me faithfully and without question, that you will provide your undeniable support to me, the People of France, and the Grand Army. You _will_ do your duty."

Jérôme, cornered with another round of surprise, would bite back a sob, unable to retort a proper answer. He dropped to his knees, notwithstanding the dirt from the ground tarnishing his trousers.

"I... I swear to you, now and forever. You have me to command," the Westphalian monarch acknowledged, and with a nod, the Emperor ushered him upwards.

With a new invigorated mindset, Jérôme gathered the necessary courage to finally discuss with his brother the Emperor the true dilemma of the day: the disappearance of the Berezina. Napoleon sensed it from a mile away.

—x—X—x—

"B-brother," the King of Westphalia managed to spurt out from his mouth. "I've heard of the news." Jérôme glanced around the state of the tent. He had expected this to happen as soon as the report reached his older brother's ear. Napoleon figured that either he had heard of it first, after his mysterious arrival, or, was only alerted by one of the general staff. Likely Berthier, or Davoust.

"So you have." Napoleon replied dismissingly. He was still as concerned with such an outrage, only barely hiding a raw anger within his blood.

"Do not lose hope." Jérôme responded, walking closer to his older brother. "We still have the men with us. They haven't lost hope in you yet, why should you?" Napoleon was as determined to shoot down his brother's useless qualms.

Napoleon did not answer, merely glaring at his brother. Air left and entered his nostrils in a rhythmic fashion as he closed his eyes. He made a great sigh before opening it. Napoleon opted for the tarnished chair and arranged it in its upright position. He made for the seat and rested his stressed back and shoulders. Napoleon craned his neck from left to right, the bones cracking back to their place.

"What can we do?" Napoleon asked, his tone still incandascent. "What ever shall we do?"

By this time, Napoleon only had a slimmer amount of hope, and mixed with his fury, only served to stress his mind further. It was a poor combination of emotion and distress that had not come to him for years. From then on, there were only sucesses and victories. Has hubris finally waked him of his arrogant reverie? Perhaps.

No, this was not how it ends for him. The Russians may take him, but he will not die in the cold. Not like this. Not with Marie and his son still out there, alone and surrounded by the leeches of Britain and Spain, while his people remain entrapped by traitors and usurpers.

"We can march south," Jérôme countered, "We can march south, towards Brabruysk."

"But we cant find Berezina!" Napoleon refuted. "How can we find a town whose based on the very river we cannot spot—"

"I say once again, Brother, do not lose hope! You are the Emperor of the French, for God's sake! There is still a possibility! The blizzard could have merely frozen the river itself and our scouts couldn't spot it. Do not let your emotions cloud your judgement!" Jérôme finished with a mouthful and loud frequency. He reconfigured his tone to the proper levels, as such, how brothers would usually speak. "You mustn't lose hope." he said, this time with as much sympathy and calmness.

Napoleon stood agape. He hadn't seen his youngest brother act like this, but, he was right. Jérôme was correct. He had let his own anger and panic blur his own mindset. He was Emperor! The very same man who defeated the Coalition in five separate wars, outnumbered and outgunned. But, the French Empire not only persisted, it expanded. The people and soldiers loved him for this victory, wins that they have been so unfairly deprived of.

"I guess you are right, Brother. I mustn't lose hope." Napoleon finally conceded. Their short counseling session was again interrupted another individual. This time, it was Marshal Louise-Alexandre Berthier, the Chief of Staff of the Army.

"Mon General," he respectfully said in greeting and upon noticing Jérôme's strange appearance, "His Majesty's Brother." The pair nodded in response to the greeting, upon which Napoleon broke the silence.

"What is it, Marshal Berthier?"

"A matter of great importance, Sire. The scouts have found an Englishman running through the woods." the Marshal emphasized the adjective with as much mirth and hatred that he could come up with. "While he is in good health, the man has several minor bruises and cuts to his face. He seemed panicked while they found him, yelling for help."

"An Englishman, here in Russia?" asked Jérôme, seemingly perplexed and confused. Napoleon made no comment about his insinuation, and instead motioned for the Chief of Staff. "Show him to me," he spit out.

"As you wish, Mon General." The man took his leave on quick succession, and the pair was once again left all alone.

"What do you think it is, Brother? Has the Russians allied themselves with the British? Has the Duke of Wellington arrived?" Jérôme asked, growing more concerned at that certain possibility.

"I do not know, Jérôme," Napoleon retorted, "but I do know this."

"I believe," he paused for effect, "I believe we're no longer in Russia."

Jérôme stopped to think for a second. Then, reality hit him. "WHAT?!"

* * *

 **Jérôme**

"Brother, whatever did the cold do to you to jump to such exaggerated conclusions? Transporting from one place to another in a blink of an eye? Do you take me for a fool?" said Jérôme, his faced affixed in a scrutinizing expression, cursing every inch of what made up Napoleon's being. His physical existence, thought of as nothing more than a mad man's shell by his own sibling. How proper.

"It isn't a conclusion, Jérôme," Napoleon reaffirmed him determinedly, "it's merely a possibility. From what our scouts had perceived, not only did we lose track of Berezina, but two, larger rivers now exist to our west and to the north."

"The geography has drastically changed, transformations far too advanced and far too bizarre for us to ignore. It is highly regular for the scale of the land to simply reshape itself at will."

Jérôme stooped to think at first, before opening his mouth and recoiling again. He snapped his neck to the tent's main entrance. No one seemed to be there.

"So. Is it true? Have we really arrived upon lands that we do not know of?"

"Perhaps," Napoleon replied, "perhaps not. But then again, you said it yourself Jérôme. Our only chance of finding a proper place of rest is south of wherever we are. There are bound to be much more warmer patches of land around these parts. I'd like to send some scouts around the perimeter to establish some sense of where we are. They will be suspicious though. We need to draft plans for a map."

"Would you call your best cartographer? We need a word with him." asked Napoleon. Jérôme interrupted him, holding up one hand. "You are Emperor, brother. Your wish is my command."

"Good. I want him to ride with the scouts in the next set of days. He is to draft a map for us. We keep it secret among ourselves at first. We shall deliver the news at the right time should the fruits of our labor yield results entirely at our favor."

"You mean, _your_ favor, brother. I'm not yet convinced of your explanation." Jérôme countered, clearly irritated that Napoleon had once again assumed his closure towards the matter.

"Maybe meeting this _Englishman_ Berthier speaks of can deliver us our desired confirmation." Napoleon quipped, still standing with his own hypothesis.

"If we truly have been transported, where would **we** be?" Jérôme asked. "What of our family? Our Royal House of Bonaparte? Will Joseph and Louis be alright?"

"I assure you. They will be fine. They are monarchs on their own right, Jérôme, and so are you. As I am the Emperor of the French, you are the destined King of Westphalia."

"What of the Empress then? My nephew? _Your_ son? By the gods of heaven and earth, you have not forgotten your son Napoleon!" exclaimed the younger man, afraid that his brother has truly lost every inch of his being. _And he's only three!_

"Jérôme, calm yourself!" Napoleon retorted, currently flustered at such a conclusion. "You mustn't assume!"

Jérôme eventually calmed. "So, do you still remember him?"

"Of course I do! I held him at my arms before I had left for Russia, for _this_ ," he gestured around the tent, "I kissed and hugged him goodbye. I told him that I would come home, or, he would grow to replace his father as Emperor. My darling Marie Louise would be Queen Regent, Empress of the French, until my son comes of age."

"I still care for them Jérôme. They are my family. You are all family. We are all family."

The younger brother seemed to have relaxed. Such emotions, such nuisances he must see to, at the face of utter despair and annihilation by the Universe's cruel odds. _Must the suffering not end?_

"We should go," Napoleon said dryly, "we have a guest to attend to."

Jérôme tensed a little bit at the mention of the prisoner. This supposed Englishman in Russian lands. Or something similar. The wintry tundra can be called the 'Lands of Always Winter' for all he cared.

"What happens to the Bonapartes, brother? What becomes of **us** if we are here, in a snowy hell with nothing but ice and frost to occupy the eyes for miles."

"A future, Jérôme. The Bonapartes, in France or not, will still have a future to look for," the Emperor stalled, "and something tells me that our little chat with the prisoner can be enlightening."

All Jérôme could do was nod. He wasn't sure of what to do either.


	2. Chapter II

AN: I own nothing. There might be some spelling or grammar mistakes along the way.

Let's answer my first ever reviews!

 **expert93** : Thank you for the support! You hold a very interesting proposition and I'd gladly accept it. I hope to be working with you soon on some of the story's content. Thanks again!

 **Lord Trump** : I'd surely continue it if people enjoy it. And that's what stories are for right? P.S. Jon Snow as a commander for Napoleon's Grand Army would totally be epic. I'll take that into account!

 **Guest** : I'll try not to disappoint.

 **last emperor** : I'll be sure to get chapters running as soon as possible. With the school year ending, I'll probably have more time in the summer. And yes, I'm initially thinking of Napoleon, somehow folding the Wildlings into his submission, and launching an invasion on th Seven Kingdoms. I wonder how Mance, Tormund, and Ygritte would contribute.

 **keller.blair1** : While I am aware of that, I don't want Napoleon to be galloping around the North and killing every single Wildling he saw. He needs all the help he could get if he wants to take this world. The Grand Army, at this point, has been reduced to 50,000-60,000 men and cavalry, as well as a few hundred artillery pieces. Their available supplies and munitions wouldn't be enough to kill off the Wildlings, and I would decide against it anayways. And yes, this during his retreat from Russia, after they had occupied Moscow but was forced to retreat.

 **Eriador12345** : Thanks for the support! It's much appreciated by a noob like me.

 **Prince of Petersburg** : I'll try not to interfere with Westerosi political affairs until the beginning of the War of the Five Kings. The start of the story would most likely revolve around Napoleon and his army running around north of the Wall fighting off the Wildlings and conquering their tribes. Of course, there would be limits as to how such weapons would be used. I don't plan on them to have that much ammo left after a big battle.

 _The show must go on!_

* * *

 **Chapter II — First Encounter**

 _"The Emperor is dead. Long live the Emperor."_

 _— Jerome of House Bonaparte, 325(?) AC_

* * *

 _"I believe we're no longer in Russia."_

 _"WHAT?!"_

* * *

 **Will**

Bare trees, almost like charred skeletons in appearance, were the dominating trait of the Haunted Forest, a substantial woodland found sprawling for at least hundreds of miles deep into territories beyond the Wall. It creeped into the frozen wasteland like an amalgamation of thorns upon a white blanket of snow. From the the tall mountain ranges of the Frontfangs to the shorelines of the Shivering Sea, the forest itself encompassed at least the entire width of the land.

The creaking resonance of the trees was the least bit of worries for Will, a scrawny fellow with dirty blond hair and thin build. His face was long and lacked of any particular facial hair. He is a skilled tracker and huntsman, and according to his fellow Rangers, the 'sneakiest bastard to ever live'. His lightweight made up for his ability to stalk and run silently, as demanded by his past and current occupation. Will was a poacher, and a man of his talents had quite the career to live for.

Not until, of course, one of Jason Mallister's men caught him in the act. He was give two options: to get his hand cut off, or, take the black. Weighing the choices together, he decided he'd rather take the black than lose his hand. It was, after all, the primary tool of his choice.

And here he is, four years into Will's life and he was already a respected Ranger, with undying loyalty to the one family that welcome him: the Night's Watch. Nothing could have gone bad, except for the Wildlings. It was always those barbaric sons of whores that managed to keep the Rangers busy, pillaging and raiding every so often while they raped the North's women and killed their husbands and children. They were simply a menace to the good people, the civilized world. Nothing more than violent savages that deserve to be beaten to pulp. The purpose of the Wall became lost in translation. Of course, amongst the bad we're the fairly civil Wildlings. No use in trying to view an entire group as evil just because of their way of survival.

Which brings him to his current predicament: the Lord Commander has ordered a squad of three to track down Wildling movements within the Haunted Forest. Mounted on horses and ready for any trouble, Will and his two other companions: the bushy bearded brute Gared and Ser Waymar Royce, a knight and Ranger of noble birth from House Royce, one of the minor noble dynasties in the Vale of Arryn.

Gared was a veteran, belonging to the older generation of Night's Watch Rangers. As one could guess, Garen was the serious type, one that got straight to point of subjects and orders. His face was fatigued from the years of service to the brothers, having explored the lands beyond the Wall a hundreds times. He would do it again, a hundred times over, if he had the time. Not only was a capable Ranger all by his own, the middle-aged man was also a soldier. As to why he had landed in the Night's Watch was currently unknown, at least to Will. He didn't want to get his teeth smashed should he approach the latter with a particularly personal question from his past.

Waymar Royce was an entirely different matter, something that did not come to Will as a suprise. The young adult was a pompous, arrogant little cunt that even Gared could not handle. His boisterous behavior was a distraction enough as it is. Add to that, the boy had the tendency to underrate the capabilities of men older than him due to their lower birth. Not that it mattered to Will. Due to his noble blood, Waymar was immediately thrusted to a ranking equivalent that of an officer. But, Will had to confess. Waymar was particularly skilled with sword for a boy of his age, and he respected this disposition. If one is capable, then there shouldn't be any long term issues should problems start to arise.

Will was eventually pulled out of his thoughts as Waymar barked out an order, to which Gared grunted at but made no effort in disobeying. The trio made for a three-way split as they neared their destination. From Will's own accord, he was able to immediately catch the track to the Wildling encampment. His horse was more than happy to oblige to his heading, huffing along as it continued its march.

The walk continued until Will and his horse reached a particular deep slope, leading to an opening of what seemed to be a recently made camp. As he got closer, shock overcame his usually calm nature. The sight was appaling. Mutilated body parts, from legs, arms, and torso were frozen solid, and strewn about in a circular-like fashion, revolving around the camp's center fireplace. Will got off the mount of his horse, and in procession, continued to examine the body parts. There ranged from different sizes, or should he say, different ages. The body parts were both of adults and children. Even if cannibals were involved, he didn't expect this measure of carnage and violence in one seating. Adding up to the tense atmosphere, there seemed to be no tracks on the ground that signifies the presence of the supposed assailants.

Finally having enough, Will couldn't keep his composure and started to vomit vehemently onto the snow, staining the thick blank sheet with a pale red fluid far too straining to describe. After finishing his fair share of disgust, Will cleaned the edge of his mouth with his sleeves of his overcoat, and reinforcing his own self-control. He promptly left the camp, no longer able to cope with the sight. While headed towards his horse, he was surprised by the sudden appearance of a young girl, hanging from the branch of a nearby tree. Already unable to bear such a dreadful view, Will increased his pace and mounted his horse.

He quickly reported back to Gared and Waymar, who awaited not too far away from the campsite. They were dismounted, conversing among themselves. To their suprise, Will came in very fast.

"For a man they call the sneakiest bastard alive, that wasn't much of a sneak wasn't it?" hummed Waymar, seemingly amused at the ordeal. He stared at Will for some time and then getting partially irritated. "Well, out with it!"

Will begun to explain his findings to the other Rangers, of how the mutilated corpses were arranged in such a manner that it almost resembled a shield. Of how the camp's tents were scratched and torn apart, tarnished beyond use. He didn't mention the girl from before. Waymar merely scoffed at his explanation, figuring that his job was made easier.

"What d'you expect? They're savages. One lot steals a goat from another lot and before you know it, they're ripping each other to pieces." Waymar said with a sarcastic tone, clearly entertained at the notion of Wildlings killing each other.

"I've never seen Wildlings do a thing like this. I've never seen anything like this, ever, for the duration of my life." Will blankly replied, clearly still shook from the experience.

Gared was grumbling, clearly not in the mood to start a fuss. "We should get back to the Wall." he stated firmly.

"Do the dead frighten you, old man?" said Waymar, grinning.

"Our orders, sire, was to track the Wildlings. We tracked them. They won't bother us no more." Gared retorted, slightly infuriated.

"You don't think the Lord Commander will ask us how they died?" Waymar countered the older man. "Get back to your horse."

Gared, grimaced and mounted back to his own stallion, his face filled with mirth. Waymar could do nothing but smirk at his victory. In succession, Will dismounted his own horse in protest.

"Whatever did it to them," Will paused to gather his thoughts, "could do it to us. They even rid themselves of the children." His residual fear was growing ever more closer to a breaking point.

"It's a good thing we're not children." Waymar replied, his voice spitting out in the same arrogant manner. His tone eventually descended to a berating one. "You want to run away south, run away. Of course, they will behead you as a deserter… If I don't catch you first, that is. Get back on your horse. I won't say it again."

Will glared at Waymar, his fear replaced with a sudden surge of fury. Then again, he obeys the younger man's demands, and returned to his horse. The trio proceeded to head towards the supposed direction of the encampment Will discovered. As they approached the campsite, Will was first to arrive, having accelerated the movement of his horse. As soon as he stopped, he saw that the camp was completely cleared, along with the girl from the tree. To his astonishment, the sign of movement was yet to appear.

"Your dead men seemed to have moved camp." Waymar mused.

Will didn't respond for a short time. "They were here." he managed to recoil, after having recollected his thoughts.

"See where they went." Gared gestured for the woods.

The trio dismounted their horses simultaneously, drawing their swords from their sheaths. As they re-enter the confines of the forest, the wind howled louder. The strange phenomenon was followed by the calls of eerie voices, whispers that were far too inaudible to be understood by the three. Gared and Waymar wondered further away from Will, who has headed in another direction on his own fruition.

* * *

 **Gared**

Before long, Gared came upon a red, crimson color on the white sheets of snow. It was a cloth. The older man motioned to grasp it, inspecting the cloth further.

"What is it?" asked Waymar, tensed.

"It's-"

Gared was suddenly interrupted by a defeaning scream coming from behind him. The scream was then gagged by the sound of bubbling fluid, completely silencing the source. He craned his neck to right to check what had happened, only to discover that Waymar had been stabbed through his stomach, blood dripping from his own mouth as he choked. The weapon was clearly crystallized in appearance, taking the form of ice. It's transparent facade was covered by a layer of blood, shining at the early morning's light. He was much too shocked to even move. The spear-like weapon eventually retracted, revealing a gaping hole that further amounted to Gared's panic. Waymar's lifeless body slumped carelessly into the soft ground, making a small thump.

Gared then saw it. A creature, when pale bluish skin, a rough surface that almost resembled frost. The figure stood at least a two feet taller, clad in a black leather garment from neck to toe. Short talons grew from its head, creating a demonic appearance. And finally, he noticed those eyes: a mix of blue and black shading that completed the ice devil's appearance. The creature's face was neutral. The old man ran for his life after only a second of looking at said monster.

* * *

 **Will**

Will suddenly jolted as he heard the scream, before being drowned it. He turned to observe what happened, planning to find his brothers before any trouble could occur. There must've been an attack.

Sword in hand, Will rushed deeper into the forest, towards what he deduced to be where the sound was coming from. He was halted in his tracks as he tried to dodge three stampeding horses. He realized that it was their horses. Will takes several glances around the thin stems of the trees, trying to be as vigilant as possible. Then he saw her. The same girl from before, who he had thought was dead. The same little girl he saw hanged up on the trees branch, frozen from the temperature. The child opened it's eyes, revealing a sharp tint of blue.

Frightened at the aspect of necromancy, Will spun himself around and begun to run. As h fled to the opposite direction, he finally spotted Gared, who was also running. They dodged trees, rocks, as well as exposed roots. Some time later, after minutes of running, the two stopped, trying to gather their breath.

"What in the old gods' names were those things!" asked Gared, face red with exhaustion and tiredness. "What the bloody fuck!"

"I don't know-" Will's response was quickly cut off by the swift slash of a blade across Gared's neck, cutting the head off cleanly. Blood oozed from the empty stump on Gared's body, falling onto the ground within seconds. The head itself landed on the white snow, before being grabbed by the same creature from before. Will was petrified. He couldn't move. It was a White Walker.

The Walker continued to stare upon the petrified Will, before throwing Gared's severed head into his open palms. The creature then disappeared into the snowy mist, leaving the boy isolated. All Will could do was stare at Gared's head, it's face stuck in a still image. He screamed.

* * *

 **Jérôme**

Jérôme and his brother the Emperor summarily paraded around the encampment as they headed towards their first prisoner of the day. The news from Marshal Louis-Alexandre Berthier was something that spread around the camp quickly, as eavesdroppers and bystanders heard of the conversation between their Emperor and his brother. Not to mention the constant shouting that was involved, mostly from Jérôme, and the sound of thrashing from before had caught the attention of the soldiers. They now whispered among themselves, pondering as to why an Englishman has somehow found himself in the middle of the Russian winter frontier.

Unbeknownst to them, Napoleon and Jérôme had already discussed the possibility that they were no longer in Russian lands. Rather, they had somehow transported to another place, perhaps in Scotland or something similar. Why? They did not know. Several times did Napoleon rebuke his brother's theory that the British has come to help the Tsar and his Imperial Army. From what he knew, it wasn't a possibility at all. The British remained neutral in the entire affair. The pair decided to keep their discussion to themselves before presenting such an outlandish idea to their Marshals. Mutiny wasn't really in Napoleon's list of things to achieve at the moment.

Several times did Jérôme resurface the notion of the Bonapartes and their fate. Napoleon had answered accordingly, acknowledging the facts that they would need heirs. Heirs that the men would follow. How they would acquire such heirs they did not know. Betrothals seems to be appealing at the moment. Even if this land, or world for that matter, had an inkling of civilization, the pair would not willingly give up the beloved of their past lives for this one. While the French was something, their kin, wives, and children were another.

The duo finally reached their perceived destination at the edge of the Army's encampment. The round tent was rough to the texture, it's base covered in icy residue. The usually clean surface has been tarnished by dirt, grime, and mud over the months it has been used, as well as scratches and holes. The fabric of the tent was flowing with the movement of the wind, a strong breeze eventually reaching them, making Jérôme slightly shiver. Napoleon took notice of this but never said anything, much less, react to such apparent exhibition of weakness. Not that it mattered. The tent in question was guarded by two members of the Young Guard, dressed in their usual blue plain uniforms and standardized Tirailleur caps. The guards held muskets each on their right hands. As soon as they sighted their Emperor, they snapped to a crisp attentive stance.

Napoleon waved them off, and in compliance, they returned to their rested positions. Jérôme followed suit of his brother's latest endeavor and entered the tent, moving the covers that encompassed the entrance of the portable shelter. The tent's interior was sufficiently illuminated by a nearby oil lantern, it's flames visibly dancing as the flames trickled and flared. It cast a soft shadow along the tent's intramural confines. The sufficient lighting revealed several things inside: a rectangular wooden table, several chairs arranged to surround said table, and a young man, the furthest towards the end of the leftmost side of the furniture, hands on the smooth flat surface. His wrists were secured with shackles, possibly a precaution, should the boy attempt to make any effort in escaping.

Jérôme doubted the dangers such a young man would pose. For the most part, this supposed Englishman was scrawny, frail looking, and wore nothing more than a thick set of furs that were distasteful at first sight. That's quite the tale he was getting from all of this. He has given his brother some advice on how to properly manage prisoners of war. Jérôme's intuitions seemed to be going nowhere at the moment. _I tried to tell him._

The three set of chairs immediately opposite of the chained man was filled in simultaneously by Napoleon, followed by his younger brother, and finally, Marshal Ney. As the Emperor's right hand man, he has every right to know what tomfoolery is currently unfolding. _The reports could wait_ , the Marshal thought, _I need to hear this._

Jérôme was now calmly tapping all fingers of his right plan on the solid plank of he polished table, trying to alleviate the tense atmosphere that was enveloping the meeting. It was already too late for him to notice, but the boy was staring blankly downward. His face was long, sullied by blood, small bruises to his cheeks, and some shallow cuts to the sides of his face. The boy's eyes were empty—lifeless and void of living—from all he could tell. There were some episodes of quiet murmuring, thought the words he could not understand himself. Jérôme had recognized this sort of face when Napoleon was bombarded with a barrage of concerns, pleas, and half-hearted suggestions during their initial occupation of the ancestral city of Moscow. The Marshals had come to counsel him. As Jérôme recalled, the exact opposite was happening. Napoleon had stared blankly, losing a part of his hope, as the Russians deprived him of another deserved victory. The boy must have encountered a similar plight, but something a military general nor marshal would or could ever understand. The lowborns were always on the receiving end of the stick.

The suppressed vibe was interrupted by Napoleon's own visage, as to gesture his motion to speak.

"Who are you?"

* * *

 **Will**

" _Qui es-tu?_ "

The foreign language sounded strange to one's ear, definitely far too complex to pronounce. Will didn't know how he would respond. Would he try to speak to them in Common, hoping for them to understand the slightest of contextual hints? No, he decided against it. There was the chance that he could offend said people. As scary as they are, he didn't want things to turn for the worst. One thing is for sure though:

These were definitely not Wildlings.

Men, civilized men, capable of this order of organization, was something to be awed about. As he had first set foot on their encampment, he was surrounded by a sea of thousands upon thousands of small little dots, creating a blanket of differentiating colors, sizes, and height. Their tents were fashioned in rows and columns, banners flying proudly. They had uniforms that varied in design and nature depending on their rank, position, and function in the army. He knew it was an army. The horsemen that he had met not too long ago were armed with rapiers, common weapons amongst the rich in the Free Cities. This much he knew. Adding to that was a short, bulky piece of wood carried by the soldiers, often with razor sharp blades installed on their fronts. He hadn't figured out their purpose though, as he is yet to witness the weapon in action.

To his knowledge, these strange men had appeared out of nowhere. They didn't belong to any of the tribes or kingdoms. Their banners, as he had caught glimpses of it, shared a common color despite the different designs he had observed from them: blue, white, and red. He did not know what they meant or what they symbolized, but this much people, gathered in the midst of a Wildling-infested forest, far away from their original homes, was something that of a miracle. He recalled the appearance of a golden bird, an eagle, it's head towards the right, affixed on the center of the white field with a crown above it, and to complete the image, a string of words that he recalled as something like " _Valeur et Discipline._ " It didn't take a Maester to realize what those words had meant.

" _Valour and Discipline._ "

These were words, that represented either their ruling House or the group itself, something far more stranger and foreign than the common Minor or Great Houses of Westeros. These people, of uniforms and armor that resembled the garments of kings and princes, of fabric that was far too rich and expensive for even the common man, and finally, of culture and nature that makes them significantly different and apart from the peoples of these lands. Whoever these people are, whatever their intents or purposes are, it could prove either fatal or beneficial.

From his years of being a poacher, he had the knack for comprehending different situations that almost always involved his fate. This was one of them.

Will remained silent in protest of this supposedly new threat, even though he had doubts over his own scrutiny. He had no method of answering back anyways. He didn't judge this people properly, but he had to remain vigilant. He belonged to the brothers, after all. He belonged to the Night's Watch. It was their duty to preserve utmost loyalty.

* * *

 **Napoleon**

Napoleon continued to eye the Northerner, glaring at every inconsequential movement that the younger man tried to make. In essence, they were minor, if not, nonexistent. From what the Emperor had surmised, the boy remains silent because it is an act of defiance—an effort to hinder the progress of communication. Sooner or later, he would find a suitable translator. He had no time to learn such an ugly and despicable dialect spoken by his mortal rivals.

"No answer, brother." Jérôme chimed in, growing impatient and restless. It has onky been a few minutes since Napoleon had asked the question, which apparently remained unanswered. "Of course he won't answer. He doesn't know what you're saying or how he could respond."

"By asking such a trivial question, what could have we possibly gotten out of it?" he added, losing some steam in the process.

"It destroys the possibility that he could be a spy." the Emperor quietly quipped. "If he doesn't know how to speak or hear our language, then he poses no threat to us. You said it yourself, Jérôme, the language barrier is a fickle thing. But in such cases where our enemy is involved, it curtails such circumstances into our utter favor." Napoleon finished with what appeared to be a growing curl around the fine lines of his lips, pleased at the aspect of gaining a tactical advantage.

His younger brother squinted, speculative of Napoleon's explanation. Jérôme averted his attention back to the younger gentleman, still restrained onto the seat. His face was completely ignorant of what was happening, which only made Jérôme grimace even more. As Napoleon put it, even of their supposed transportation into a new world, his brother is already making plans of conquering this strange new world. It didn't bother him. Jérôme was more concerned on how his brother would succeed in doing so. As much as he appreaciated his older sibling's ambitions and the accomplishments that come with it, it can no longer be ignored that the weary shape and order of the Grand Army requires more aggressive methods to be use in order for successful results in its future aspirations. Casualties, on either side, mattered to Jérôme the most. With casualties comes the cost of treating injuries and dead, as well as reducing their available manpower, resources, and equipment. They cannot sacrifice much.

His reverie was interrupted by Napoleon readily giving out instructions on what is to be an order for the next few days. "Our young guest shall be given full rights as a prisoner of war. He is to be provided fresh garments from our stores, as well as food, shelter, and a ride. I will provide him two members from the Young Guard for his own personal protection. No weapons are to be drawn or used near him. Violence against him will not be tolerated." The Emperor paused. "He is never to leave the sight of his respective guards."

"As you wish, Sire," responded Marshal Ney, already standing up ready to carry on the order, "it will be done."

Napoleon nodded to signify his approval, before turning to eye the Marshal. "And, Ney, I want those reports by the hour. Our departure is to be delayed for the time being. Obviously, we'll need to reorganize our forces before any real movements can be made." Ney bowed his head in the acceptance of his new orders. The man twisted himself around and took his prompt leave.

"Mon General," he gestured for Napoleon. A prompt "Your Majesty" was inclined towards Jérôme, who for all intensive purposes, nodded his head in return.

As soon as the man had exited the tent, two Young Guards came in to extract their newest prisoner. He stood up without protest and was literally dragged out of the tent's interior, hauled off to wherever the Marshal wanted him to be. Napoleon stood up as well, adjusting his own overcoat and returning his ushanka on it's rightful place.

Something has sparked in his mind. The gears had started to churn and rotate as scheme after scheme comes to fruition.

"There are many things to be done, brother," Napoleon jested, "and if it is true, then we are no longer in Russia. This is a new continent, a new start. Another land to be conquered by our mighty legions. For all we know, this could be a different world! Think about it brother! The possibilities. They are just absolutely endless!"

Jérôme hummed at the words of his brother. It was a tempting situation indeed. It's as if God had provided a clean, new, and blank template for their plans of a world order. Like an artist would be to a blank piece of canvas, fresh from its rolled slumber. This was an opportunity begging to be taken. Jérôme had made his decision: he would join his brother in their conquest of these lands. The least he could was help in the reconstruction process should they succeed. He would help with his new government and administering armies and provinces. Possibly, he could even push for Napoleon to observe some more basic rights for the people. Jérôme could be a contributing factor to the eventual success of the Revolution. This world or the other, it didn't really matter. So long as he had a say in how history was figuratively decided upon. Should they fail, though, he'd like to retreat to the countryside, perhaps become a farmer. Or with the last of the coin he had left by selling off his personal property, travel around this strange new world and learn as much as possible. Maybe even Napoleon would be interest, if either of them lived, though. Jérôme was still unsure. He did not want to leave out the possibility that they could come home. He felt Napoleon believed in this too. His brother was just being, well, optimistic. While they are here, they could both worry about themselves and their lives first, before concerning themselves with ways to discover the way back.

To Terra, or _Earth_ , God's chosen kingdom.

 _The center of the universe_ , he thought.

Satisfied with his train of thought, Jérôme pushed himself out of the table's way and buttoned his layered coat, after which he plopped his own ushanka as a means to shield his bushy head.

"I shall retreat to my quarters, brother. I will ready my trunk and my personal effects," he stated, yawning at the afterthought, "you should as well, it will be quite the journey to wherever we're planning to go."

"I believe I will, brother. In two days time, we shall march. And we shall do so for our family, friends, God, and the French nation." Napoleon answered absentmindedly, already drafting plans and outcomes related to his new ventures in conquering **this** world.

"Good," Jérôme smiles tiredly, "farewell for now. Alert me of any further news, won't you? It's getting really interesting."

The veritable King of Westphalia turned on his heels and left the Emperor of the French his unaccompanied isolation. Napoleon was left to ponder with himself, highly optimistic of the future of House Bonaparte.

 _After all, victory belongs to the most persevering. Ability is nothing without opportunity._

A smile crept on his lips. At least, something good has come out of this entire charade.

* * *

 **AN: New development! Will from Episode 1 doesn't get beheaded and encounter French scout grenadiers. Napoleon and Jérôme realize the truth. The war drums begin to play once more.**


	3. Chapter III

AN: I do not own anything. Enjoy the story.

But, let's answer some more reviews first!

 **Shockeye7665** : I'm pleased that you took interest in this, despite my current desposition as a noob author. I'll try not to tire any of you. Thanks for the review!

 **luccajorge21** : I hope you liked it! I appreciate the review!

 **RedSword12** : Thanks for the feedback! That's a lot of information I could you use to help shape the story. I'm glad that people, like you, would actually use their time to give such great advice! Thanks again!

 **expert93** : I'm highly appreciative of the feedback. Really interesting too! Hopefully, the magical properties of the world of Game of Thrones would solve the language barrier. The Three-Eyed Raven may help. Or the Red God. As for the logistical hell Napoleon would have to endure, I have placed a fixed number for their supplies and munitions. I decided one week for munitions (which could encompass entire battles, as historically, battles did not end in a day) and a month for consumables. After that, Napoleon would be facing dissenters, mutiny, stragglers (who may or may not join up with the Wildlings) and useless cannons and muskets within a force of 50,000-60,000 men. He would eventually have to resort to swords and use bayonets as spears. From what I've researched, the Grand Army had sapper and engineer companies, who might as well have known how gunpowder works in the first place and the materials needed to make it. It's very vague in its terminology. As for the food problem, the Army would most likely rely on foraging. Heck, if Mance Rayder could feed a hundred thousand mouths just from hunting and gathering alone, we can bet Napoleon can reciprocate the same thing. Or, they would relocate to the east, invade Hardhome, and muster as much fish as they could, and perhaps, introduce some technological advancements of their time. As you said, he could simply scare the defenders with the thunderous cracks of a cannon. There are so much possibilities.

 **Guest** : Thanks for reviewing!

 **Lord Trump** : Ideas are more than welcome, my friend. Thanks again!

 **osterreicher7** : A mistake on my part. The Bonapartes weren't meant to be cruel, but Napoleon's ambitions can often get in the way of his own morality. His arrogance was to be blamed for his failures.

 **Prince of Petersburg** : In the lands of always winter, I'd believe survival was the first priority, before any invasions can be done against the Seven Kingdoms. Shall we say, Napoleon promises Mance a refuge in the south for his people, but Mance would provide warriors for Napoleon's conquest of the south. It might just work.

 **Thranduil Arryn** : I'm glad you liked it. Thanks for the review!

 **selenepotter** : I won't let you down!

 **ATP** : I was hoping of introducing a story arc that would involve the Starks (which I began with Benjen, to supposedly ride south to Winterfell. He finds some direwolve pups in the side of the road and decide to gift them to the Stark children, including Jon Snow. Then, Benjen would explain the mysterious happenings that has currently plagued the Night's Watch (which may force Jeor Mormont to begin the Great Ranging at a more earlier date). I wont spoil anything else.

 _The show must go on!_

* * *

 **Chapter III — The Song of Departure**

 _"An army marches on it's stomach."_

 _— Napoleon of House Bonaparte, 300 AC_

* * *

 **Napoleon**

As preparations for the Army's departure Napoleon had devised an organizational system to separate the men into smaller groups of corps. Taking differentiating advice from his brother Jérôme, the King of Westphalia, and his Marshals of the Empire, including Marshal Ney and Berthier, they were able to cooperate together and develop a satisfactory arrangement of what was left of the armed forces.

A royal decree personally signed and approved by Napoleon retained the already existing organization of the French Grand Army, while also adding some major changes, such as the moving of entire companies into other battalions and regiments to fill in the voids within the ranks. General officers kept their posts as commanders of their respective corps.

With ground troops composing of at least fifty thousand, and seventy thousand men at most, in strength, they were dissected into seven primary divisions—the Northern Flank, the Central Force, the Reserve Cavalry Corps following immediately behind the Central Force, the Rear Central Corps, the Right Flank, the Southern Flank, and a new Left Flank.

The Northern Flank was detailed in such fashion that it only consisted of Marshal MacDonald's X Corps, comprised of 30,000 men contrived from what was left of its various infantry divisions, cavalry, and artillery. Somehow, the Prussian bulk under Yorck was still intact, owing to the large number of men currently in service. While they failed to take Riga when sent north during the Russia campaign, Macdonald's careful planning and his coordination with the Prussians has left it unscathed during the retreat. Thus, the X Corps was to be the vanguard of the Grand Army, the first to taste either the glory of victory, or the bitter end of defeat. MacDonald was more than capable, Napoleon knew, but his loyalty was questionable. Only his merit and skill was enough to convince the Emperor of the French than such a man was useful to his goals.

The Central Flank was considered the bulk of the reorganized Grand Army, manned by somewhere around fifty to a hundred thousand souls. Under Napoleon's personal command, his orders are then reciprocated by Marshals Bessières, Lefebvre, and Mortier through the Imperial Guard; Davoust, Oudinot, and Ney through the I, II, III Corps; and finally, Marshal Murat and the Divisional Generals de Nansouty and Montburn through the divisions of the Reserve Cavalry, which immediately falls under the jurisdiction of the Central Force. The Reserves were horsemen not already attached to the main Army Corps. In addition to the core of the Grand Army were the remnants of the elite Vistula Polish Legion, the Velites of Turin and Florence, the Spanish Pioneer Battalion, and a few multinational units hailing from Portugal, Poland, and Switzerland. As for support services, Napoleon valued its indispensable use for the continued function of the largest army to ever be fielded in the history of man. Military engineers in the form of the Artillery General Park; logistical companies that handled the inventory of equipment, supplies, rations, and gunpowder; medical staff that utilized the full advantages of flying ambulances and mobile hospitals with dozens of available surgeons and doctors; and finally, communications, which primarily involved standard bearers, musicians, dispatches conveyed by the brave Hussars, homing pigeons, observation balloons, and the ingenious Telegraph Semaphore system—a true testament to propagation of technological advance due to military conflict. The Grand Army possessed several incomplete prototypes of a mobile version of the system, carried on wagons and carriages instead. Napoleon knew that technology was critical to the Army's survival. He had assigned several engineering companies to begin testing and further development of the project.

Artillery was compiled into reserve groups and to be used at Napoleon's behest. This was entirely parallel with Napoleon's Grand Battery tactic, in which a large battery of artillery was arrayed in one spot, before concentrating all firepower at critical points and targets. While not at all reliable in the realm of guns and cannons, especially when the enemy belligerents are also skilled with the art of modern war, it proved to be valuable now. With the Grand Army trapped in another world with medieval knights, castles, and swords, the Grand Battery strategy was sure to trample over all those who stand opposed the French Empire.

The Rear Central Corps was headed by a trifecta: a Monarch and two Marshals of the Empire: Eugène Beauharnais, his son-in-law, commandeering the IV Corps, followed by the VI Corps under Marshal Saint-Cyr, and the III Reserve Cavalry Corps under Marshal Grouchy.

The Right Flank force was under Napoleon's brother Jérôme, who then supervised the V Corps of Josef Antoni Poniatowski, which mostly consisted of Polish volunteers, and the IV Reserve Cavalry Corps commanded by Divisional General Marie Victor de Fay. Under Jérôme's personal command is also the VIII Corps, formerly under Général Junot, who had been granted command when Jérôme had abandoned them. It was still a disappointment, but he was sure his brother will make sure he was useful.

The VII Corps and Austrian Corps composes the Southern Flank, the rearguard, under Divisional General Reynier and Field Marshal Karl Philip. The Austrians were transported as well, as he had learned, despite their minor involvement with the Russian invasion and inactivity Pultusk, under his instructions. Because of that, their numbers swelled to well over 34,000. They rivaled the French in proportion, and with their present conditions, he was sure some falling out is to occur between the allies, as estranged and unfriendly the relationship is. He would have to watch their every move.

And finally, the Left Flank, a last-minute revision of the Army organization, was to be comprised of the XI Corps under Marshal Augereau and IX Corps under Marshal Victor-Perrin. The two Army Corps were late additions to the main force on its way to Moscow. During the retreat, they had been attached to the Central Force to cover its exposed left side. With further security and defenses, Napoleon was convinced that the Grand Army would be unstoppable once it has recuperated its full strength.

Concerning infantry and cavalry divisions, the average infantry regiment was 1,000 men, with battalions of 300-800, and companies of 80-150. Battalions were organized to one elite grenadier company, and then four regular fusilier companies as well as a single voltigeur company. Cavalry regiments were between 800 to 1,200 men. Napoleon was well aware many of the battalions and regiments has seized to exist due to their losses. It would be sometime before they replenish numbers, as survival remains a top priority for all.

All of this had been done in a day, as the smaller magnitude of men, equipment, horses, carts, and artillery were much more easier to handle then the failed French invasion of Russia. Napoleon had acknowledged his loss in the field, and he would not do so again. As supplies were running low, his window of time had been squeezed thin, coercing the Emperor to invest much of his time in formulating a full proof plan that will allow the Army self-sufficiency for a few more weeks. The men will be angry, yes, at lower quantity of rations and food. He also had to adapt the army to the cold weather presented by this strange new land. The only other person aware of the predicament they were in was Jérôme, as the encounter with the Englishman from the day before was evidence enough for him to believe his brother. Though, the youth still had second thoughts, concerning mainly on the state of the French Empire, their family, and what has become of Europe.

In truth, Napoleon did care for his people. He cared for the Empire. He loved France as much as any revolutionary Frenchmen there is. As he loved France, he loved his family. The Bonapartes, which had birthed him from infancy and guided him to a path of success, ambition, and most ironically, destruction. He himself was the cause of this destruction. He was of this family, and forever bonded to the clan through blood, brain, and brawn.

As for his son, he was proud. The second Napoleon of the family would, probably, grow to replace his father as Emperor, or in much worser possibility, die trying to do so. His second wife Marie Louise would take care of him and sway the Senate to their favor, and hopefully. Napoleon admitted that it was his fault for not listening to her pleas. He loved his wife, but was too arrogant to see defeat even though the Empress forbade him to go. Now, they were stuck here, in this frozen wasteland with no hope of returning back.

And so, Napoleon developed the mental ability to hold his emotions, refusing to give to sentiment or feeling at a time of crisis. Yes, this was a crisis. One of many he would face in the years to come. Maybe even shorter. They were mysteriously hauled into a world unknown to him or his men. A world that contains many perils, dangers, and obstacles. He had to remain strong, and only through the force showing of ambition, cunning, and strength, will be able to survive. And along with him, the free Frenchman shall be nourished, flourish, and rise to the top. Napoleon promised this to himself, for the betterment of himself and the remnants of the Grand Army.

He would not fail.

Napoleon's thoughts returned to less than controversial figures to the logistical report currently held at his right palm. He proceeded to fix the frame of his reading glasses—a necessity he conceived far before any of the events this past year or so. He was reaching his middle years, an age where time took its toll on his body. No man of distinction wore these medical appliances in public, not even at the presence of his most trusted friends and generals. It was a sign of weakness that he desired not to readily demonstrate towards men that had followed him for almost two decades.

Upon viewing the contents, he found out that his fears came to be true. They would not last more than a month if they continue at this pace: they never bothered to move an inch from their current encampment.

Fifty to seventy thousand line infantrymen, grenadiers; medical, engineering and support personnel; as well artillery men and members of the Imperial Guard. Napoleon had lost the majority of their main cavalry force and reserve horsemen during their retreat, using the horses for meat and sustenance as supplies dwindled. That was before they had the chance to restock in various supply dumps and depots they had managed to capture and establish along the Smolensk, Vitebsk, and Orsha routes. Somehow, the Russians failed to destroy these depots. A mistake on their part, said Napoleon to no one in particular.

In total, the only horses they had left were up to twenty thousand, the majority of which were untrained for any form of combat and only pulled their supply carts and trains. Seasoned mounted grenadiers, dragoons, lancers, and horse chasseurs numbered in the mere count of several thousands. He had chosen forty six men from the elites, currently on their surveillance task, the majoirty of which were highly trained cavalrymen, some engineers, and cartographers, that would remain as his permanent Scout Regiment of the Imperial Guard. He would save them from the fate of reintegration, something that was an annoyance to those who had already built their camaraderie amongst their fellow brothers-at-arms.

After some time pondering, he recollected his thoughts and reworked some calculations. The twenty thousand horses were more mouths to feed, in the light of dwindling hay stocks from their supply trains. A further strain to the logistics of the entire Grand Army.

And finally, the Grand Army's main arsenal: cannons. The 6- and 4-pounder Gribeauval guns were key strategic proponents to battles. It was Napoleon's secret weapon. The magneficient Grand Batteries he had used in the dozens of skirmishes and wide scale and engagements he had participated in were feared by all. Constant bombardments, the use of canister shots, explosive shells, and mortars allowed him to drill enemy belligerents into oblivion and mentally scar his opponents. Much to his chagrin, the army only had few dozen of them remaining functional. To add to that, Napoleon had to drop most of the 24-,12- and 8-pounder howitzers due to the strain on their manpower. They were basically dead weight. He scanned his eyes towards the direction of their munition stores.

As expected, the report declared that munitions were significantly low. Their gunpowder magazines and ammunition for handheld flintlock pistols, other smaller firearms, muskets, and finally, their cannons, were all but used up. Napoleon realized that every shot counts. If their supplies were this scarce, then they had to ration it. They would have to resort to using bayonets in battles for close-quarter combat. Firearms would only be used on rare occasions. Though, according to their prisoner, he had no form of firearms on him. Napoleon also noticed that the Englishman looked confused at the sight of a musket. He would remind himself of this later on should the circumstances call for it. It may be important in the battles to come.

Finally finishing the last words of the report, Napoleon indiscriminately tossed the pile of parchment onto the topside of the table. Grabbing hold of the frame of his glasses and placing it inside one of his pockets, his other hand reached for his eyelids and massaged it. From exhaustion, Napoleon's eyes had started to strain—a clear sign that he needed to rest. Tomorrow, he will have to brief the Marshals on his findings with his brother.

The cartographer he had requested for had departed by day break, riding along with the morning scouts he had sent into the wilderness to survey the lands. A simple sketch of the nearby elevations and points of interests, such as rivers and open patches of land would suffice. He decided against moving in two days, delaying the march to a week, and giving as time much as possible for said cartographer to complete the map. They needed to locate more hospitable areas for the Army, so that rationing may be replaced with foraging. The French were skilled hunters and gatherers. A constant supply of meat, fruit, and freshwater would take care of their hunger problem. But that was still a month from now. Yes, they'd ration the supplies, but it won't last. Napoleon had bought time, and now he must use it to his advantage.

Giving in to his fatigue, Napoleon slumped onto the chair and fell unconscious.

* * *

 **Claude**

The First Éclaireurs Scouting Regiment were one of the foremost reorganized cavalry groups for the remanants of the French Grand Army, under the command of the Major Claude Testot-Ferry. They brought with them fresh water and rations to last them their entire trip, a sacrifice Napoleon was willing to endure if he is to save his army of nearly seventy thousand. The regiment of 45 seasoned calvary has been given a deadline by the Emperor:

"Return to me in one week's time. On the eight day, I expect you all to have returned with no casualties, with a report on your findings and a sketched map on my hand. That is all. Good luck, Major." the Emperor had paused then to swerve his head and eyes towards the cartographer's own. "Monsieur Minard."

The words echoed throughout the Major's mind, who had been given a quota so ambitious it would be impossible. His military career comprised of a series of successes since the Battle of Valmy in 1792, and on 1808, finally met the Emperor of the French in person. The ruler was strongly impressed with Claude's efforts and named him chef d'escardon for the Penisular War. He was summoned again by Napoleon in 1811 to serve as a member of the Empress's Dragoons, one of the main cavalry branches to the Imperial Guard. A year later, Claude would join his comrades-at-arms for the invasion of Russia.

The invasion was nothing short of a catastrophe. Battles, skirmishes, and disastrous consequences of the Grand Army's hasty withdrawal had rendered the Dragoons to nothing more than a small platoon, as majority of the horses trained for battle died off, starved and became fatigued during their retreat from Moscow, or were simply killed off my desperate men looking for food. Save for this group of endurance horses, who could cover up to a hundred miles in twelve hours, the cavalry were literally nonexistent at this point.

The Éclaireurs were currently on their sixth stop for the day. Due to the bitter cold, the men simply stared intently towards the fiery blaze of their night campfire. Forty-six men, silent and unwilling to move their mouths. And with them was their esteemed guest, a surveyor named Charles Joseph Minard. Minard was a skilled civil engineer who worked on bridges, roads, dams, and canals before he was recruited into the Geographical Engineering Corps of the Grand Army. Napoleon had admired Minard's capabilities as an esteemed mastermind for infrastructural projects, as well as his uncanny ability to represent numerical data on geographical maps.

The departure signified the slow countdown of the clock. Their first twelve hours consisted of five stops along their southwestern direction. Charles had insisted they head south first, as the warmer climate may be helpful to their current state. The engineer had been true to his words. While the cold was still piercing to the touch of the skin, it was hot enough that the horses wouldn't have been bothered. As a means of conserving heat, Charles insisted that the horses feed on their supply of dry hay. He explained that the digestion of food allows horses to produce warmth from within their bodies, to which Claude simply awed upon. Even he, a learned and veteran horseman, did not known of such 'trivial' facts. That was at least, according to the intellectual before him.

What estranged the Major though was the purpose of this one-week reconnaissance mission. Had the Emperor, perhaps, destroyed his maps during that day after the blizzard? Claude still thought that they were in Russia, as is the common knowledge to the other members of the Éclaireurs. The engineer Minard, though, was relatively lax regarding the subject matter, remaining silent throughout their conversations.

Moments later, the men were 'enjoying' their first meal for the day. The rations they had been given consisted of mainly horse flesh, much to the Major's chagrin. Though there were loaf bread and some beans, Claude expressed his vexations with tactful candor, in hopes of raising the troops' morale. He successfully accomplished that goal, as the response that came along with his aggravation was a chain of laughs from the crowd. He even noticed Charles smirking, who was trying not to blench on his share of horse meat. As for the water, their canteens were dirty and muddy. The engineer solved this misfortune immediately, as he had suggested pursuing the water by heating it. The hot water also bestowed them comfort that the near-inhospitable temperature had robbed off from their frail and frozen bodies. The regiment slept pleasantly that night.

Claude arose early in the morning to take a well-deserved piss on a nearby tree. He returned to camp to find Charles up and sketching away on his book.

"You are still awake, Charles?" the burly man asked, stretching. "Everyone else is still asleep."

"Yes, Major. I'm just trying to finish this portion of the map before we move on. We don't want to get lost, don't we?" the engineer replied dryly. Claude gave out a thunderous chuckle and patted the engineer on the back. This caused the later to glare, resulting to even more laughter. The Major averted his attention to the sleeping cavalrymen and forced them to awaken. The mounted soldiers jolted to consciousnesses and made preparations for their second day.

It was uneventful. The next fifty miles saw nothing but more trees and streams. The same repeating pattern of coniferous stems arising from the ground and reaching dozens of meters into the sky. The same frozen grass plains, shrubbery, and rocks and small hills. There was no color—only the black of the supposed "evergreen" plants and the mass blanket of small crystalline specks. Though, what peaked their interest was the apperance of a river. It was too wide and too freezing for them to cross. The other side of said river revealed the tall, razor sharp and jagged mountains of the Frostfangs. Not that they knew of the name. They simply figured they couldn't continue westward anyways. The cavalrymen agreed that this might have been the supposed Berezina River the Army was originally headed for. Claud remained speculative of this logic. Something was amiss.

After much discussion, the regiment had decided to head north and follow the river, counter to it's flow. If there was a stream that the river originated from, then there must be warmer climates towards their current heading. They continued for another fifty miles and made their last stop near the river. The regimental cavalry followed the same routine of whimpering in the cold, drinking hot water, consuming the disgusting horse flesh until their bellies were full for tomorrow, and falling asleep without much to complain about. Charles continued drawing on his makeshift sketch book.

* * *

 **Charles**

The next day was something of a strange occurrence.

Halfway through their travels, they made their third stop, as the sun shine high in the sky. They only had a glimpse of it, though, as the thick, unpigmented vapors of the clouds above had blotted out much of the sunlight to the surface. Charles had decided to leave the group for a while, asking the Major for permission stroll in the woods. Claude hesistantly agreed and handed him a sheathed sabre, before going back to his horse and tending to the might beast. He walked across their temporary camp, where the men discussed with themselves the little things in life. Some talke about their families, about how they wanted to make love with their wives and spend time with their sons and daughters. Something that would never happen, thought Charles.

Just a few days ago, the Emperor and his brother had unveiled to him the truth: they were no longer in Russia. This proved to be true, as morning patrols alerted Napoleon that their maps did not match with any of the geographical features around their immediate vicinity. There was no Berezina. There was no city by the river. It was simply fields of snow and the skeleton like forests of this barren wilderness. Charles undertook the challenge of drafting a map for the Emperor and joining the Éclaireurs on their first mission. All had to be done in a week, as the day of the deadline would be the day the Grand Army would start to move. It was their third day, just four more to go. He had only completed a third of the map.

Charles was pulled out of his thoughts as he entered the dull scenery: black trees, as if burned to the color charcoal, and blankets of snow. Roots, loose branches, and felled logs of wood were embedded onto the discolorized ground.

A few more steps forward. The same, repetitive pattern appeared before his eyes. It was straining. It was ugly. He hadn't been so bored in his entire tenure as an engineer and cartographer.

It was true. This was hell on earth. But, with the lack of a better word, Charles figured a cold hell would be better than a hell where he was burnt in an infinite inferno. The bottomless pit, where blazing heat scratched and bruised skin but not burn them. Fire that touched him yet left no mark. His blood would boil, and it would hurt him. Pain comparable to a thousand lashes each second. Yet, he managed to seduce himself with the thoughts of heat and warmth. That was something out of his reach. Charles was entrapped here, along with his comrades, in a thrice damned world filled with nothing more than Old Man Winter's droppings.

Then, he heard something.

Footsteps. It wasn't his.

Charles stopped abruptly. He quickly turned his head, hand grasping the handle of his sabre. We're his ears betraying him? His eyes scanned around the perimeter, looking for any movements.

And then he heard screaming.

Not the sort that signified distress. It was filled with rage, anger, and was war-like in nature. He had read of the war cries of the Native Indians and the tribesmen in the wilderness of Africa. How they fought with such ferocity and fervor that even an Mamaluk would shit his pants.

He spun himself around to see a large burly man charging at him, wearing thick rags of fur, and an axe by his hand. His face was covered with scarred lines upon his skin, with a face as pale as the snow, and a scalp that lacked any hair. Before he could even unsheathe his sword, the supposed assailant's head exploded, blood gushing out of the stump on the body.

Charles' ears had been ringing as the sudden firing of a musket resonated around his head. Tilting his eyes to the side, he was deluged by the appearance of an Éclaireur holding his forewarn by the side. He glanced to the right as more men with bald heads were coming, charging.

"Come with me if you want to live," the soldier hastily said, "We'll get the others."

And with that, they were gone by the moment. Seconds of running later saw them arrive at the camp, where the men were busying themselves with small talk, smuggled wine (provided by Claude), and general preparations for their next round of traveling.

"Where have you been, Minard? We were about to leave." the Major asked, currently adjusting his mount. "Get to your horse."

"There's men, Sire. Savages." the soldier had said. "I followed Monsieur Minard to the forest should he found himself in the nip of trouble."

"He speaks the truth, Major. If he wasn't there, I wouldn't have left this place in one piece."

"There headed this direction, Sire. We need to ride now, if we wish to conserve our powder."

"Let us go then."

Claude turned his sights towards the encampment, signaling them that it was time to go. The men quickly converged to gather their belongings and supplies, readying themselves for another hasty departure. With the men and horses assembled, it was fight or flight. The Emperor had instructed them to avoid fighting and, at least, perpetuate their only stock of gunpowder and ammo. They may have muskets, but they lacked the amount of munitions to survive a fight. They had more men, but with the increasingly cold climate, they just couldn't muster the proper will to fight, with firearms or their sabres.

The entire regiment started galloping, right before the rest of the supposed savages emerged from the thick forest. Later on, they arrived at their hundred-mile limit. Another day, another night. It was becoming the most monotonous endeavor they had ever experienced.

The fourth day brought them to the volcanic regions of the Thenn Valley. They never entered the valley and simply observed, keen on discovering whatever wonders lie beyond these lands. An oasis in a sea of desert. A paradise in the midst of lands forever conquered and reigned over the cold climate.

The men started to squabble among themselves. This was something else. It was no longer Russia. Claude was bombarded with question after question of the true intentions of the regiment. Was it an act of desertion from the Grand Army? To explore these new lands, territory no man had set their sights upon? They realized the presence of the cartographer. They were here, assigned with express purpose of guarding their surveyor.

"Men of the First Éclaireurs! Listen to me!" he yelled from across the encampment. The men turned their heads. This was the time to act. He had to reveal it to them, sooner or later. Why not now? It didn't matter much to him.

"It is true we may no longer be Russia. The Emperor Napoleon, his Imperial Majesty, has sent us on this task to draft a map for him: one he could utilize to march the Grand Army. We have been blessed by God! Giving us this paradise, for our betterment. He free man's betterment. We shall survive!"

Claude stood agape, too shocked to find out what had happened. The mounted soldiers started to bicker among themselves, weighing their options. Should they leave the regiment due to this betrayal from their Emperor, who had the audacity to keep secrets to himself? Secrets that concerned the well-being of their fellow friends and comrades? Or should they stay, understand the pressure the Emperor is facing in keeping the Grand Army intact, and help aid in this enormous operation to restore the Empire's former glory? Well, in world they hadn't known.

The men settle on an agreement and reimbursed their faith on the surveryor, their superior officer, and the Emperor, determined as ever to return to their journey ahead. They were cautious, though. Death still wreaked havoc in these lands.

Before they left, Charles, accompanied by the best trackers of the group, entered the Valley to take the necessary inquiry prevalent about the geographical makeup of the region, as well as the vegetation present. They retained a vigilant demeanor during their brief exploration of the greenery. Charles collected samples of the new species of plants they had uncovered that day. What caught his curiosity was a certain pale blue flower—a beautiful one with dozens of wide petals. The Winter Rose, as he and named it, was a magneficient thing to see. Finishing up the last of his notes and sketches on his journal, Charles and his escorts made haste to reach the cavalry regiment, picking with them along the way some fruits to last them the remainder of the trip.

The regiment left once again and rode for another fifty miles. After that, they had their rest. The next day was as tedious as ever, they now road southeast, into what Charles had deduced to be the direction of the Grand Army's encampment. Another hundred miles passed and they unwinded, exhausted of the the frivolous and mundane procedure they had been trailing for the last six days.

Came the seventh day, they rode east, only to approach the cliffs of the Shivering Sea—a sea filled with floating icebergs and nothing more than winds that were far too contemptible and loathsome for the cavalry to bare. They left, leaving behind the stench of the salty body of water, heading west.

It had been a week. Seven trials. Seven times hell had opened to torment them with it's frosty appendages. They had triumphed. Seven days since their departure, and on their eighth cycle of hours, they approached the outskirts of the Grand Army's encampment—the massive and sprawling city of tents and smoke pillars. As they trotted into the cantonment with as much self-esteem and delight as they could convene at the moment, they were met with the expectant faces of men who had been waiting for very long. Supply magazines were at dangerously low levels. Yet, they remained strong, despite the near-depleted state of their rations. Morale had been revived, and their trust towards their Emperor reinvigorated with such delight and enthusiasm. They had prayed, begged, and asked for mercy from the God, and how they wished the best of blessings for the Emperor and his expedition. Their praises answered, hope had finally arrived from it's delay.

There was a way.

Soldiers of all age, rank, and nationality were rejoicing, parading the heroes around the camp in celebration of their return. From the French, to the Polish, Austrians, Prussians, Italians, Hungarians, and Hollanders—all were united in this brief instance of fraternal gratitude. Something which, apparently, brought a smile on Charles' normally obscure facade.

* * *

 **Napoleon**

Napoleon was currently leaning on the wooden table before him, his hands supporting the weight of his body. Gathered around him were Marshal Berthier, Marshal Ney, his youngest brother Jérôme, Marshal MacDonald, Marshal Oudinit, Marshal Davoust, his brother-in-law Joachim Murat, his son-in-law Eugène Beauharnais, as well as foreign Marshals Jozef Poniatowski, Karl Philip, Johann Yorck, and Julius von Grawert. He wasn't very close with Murat or Beauharnais, but both have been part of the Imperial family for years already. Only through Jérôme's manipulations were they allowed in the inner circle of commandeering the Grand Army. They were having a closed-door meeting, one concerning about their current ventures here in the damnable wasteland of the lands beyond the Wall. Yet, they were still very, very far away from uncovering the secrets and dark beings that lurk in this world.

"As all of you know, since a week ago, that we can no longer validated the fact that we are in Russia," Napoleon started, getting glances from the men surrounding him, "and I know most of you have doubted me and my brother's conclusions."

There were some nods, either hesistantly or unwillingly. The Marshals weren't as encouraged enough to disagree with their Emperor so openly.

"So, I present you a map."

He brought out a large piece of paper that nearly covered the flat surface of the entire table. The men started to inspect said map, and to their suprise, it was well made.

"My Emperor," Yorck begun with a subtle voice, "is this the map that that surveyor had supposedly created in a week?"

"Indeed it is, Marshal Yorck. An ambitious project, I digress, but the man has his talents."

"These numbers." Poniatowski pointed out across the finely sketched edges and lines. "He even had elevation and distances clarified. And that line was their path? A marvelous sight to beholden!"

"That's impossible," Murat chimed in, his face clearly in awe, "a map as detailed as this would have taken scholars months, nay, years to create!" Ney glared at the younger man, seemingly watchful of the unintentional pun made referencing his familial name. Murat winced, realizing his mistake. Jérôme watched the entire exchange with nothing more than a humored expression on his youthful face. Napoleon, befuddled by the perplexing behavior in front of him, returned to the discussion.

Further interpretion of the map allowed the Marshals to follow with their Emperor's plans. With a lack of food and supplies, their main priority was to acquire such a scarce resource for their Army, if the they are to survive. The reports from Charles Minard had just given their answer: a volcanic region northwest of the encampment where healthy vegetation, game, and fruits were amassed ran amok. It was formidable Elysium. Heaven on Earth. A chance for the Grand Army to survive.

Napoleon and his generals had decided they would there, towards what Charles had termed as the "Elysian Valley." Not one soul in this world could have come up with a better name.

* * *

 **Mance**

A large man with long brown hair, that has gone mostly gray, was currently meditating at the confines of his own tent. He looked remarkably normal—an average individual in a very vindictive and cruel world. From the natural laws of this land and to the deities who seemed to stand above it, the wrath and corruption spread forth has encompasses even the most conceptual of ideals, changing the very hearts and minds of men. Yet, a greater evil approaches, one that will bring along with him an army that will bring forth further destruction and chaos.

Mance Rayder was the current King-Beyond-the-Wall, a title named to any Wildling that had managed to unite all of the Free Folk beyond the Wall.

A charismatic, calm, and driven man with strong leadership qualities, his exceptional social skills enabled him to unite the majority of the diverse Wildling clans. His honest yet stern persona earned him the deepest respects and admiration of the toughest and most violent wildlings, as well as the mythical giants further up north. His trusting nature was something of a benefit and a disadvantage in his part, as he realized this with the various betrayals and backstabs he had encountered in the last several decades of his life.

Mance has been a black brother of the Night's Watch, the same dying military order that had nurtured him and nourished him since he was but a babe. A Wildling babe to be exact. When Mance was but an infant, the wildling raiding band he was with was killed fighting the Night's Watch, leaving him an orphan, but the scouts took pity on him and took the baby back to the Wall to be raised as a black brother. Mance struggled with his dual identity as he grew up. Chafing at the restrictions and orders that the Night's Watch places upon its members, he eventually fled over the Wall and rejoined his own people. Over several years he became a respected war leader and warrior, and eventually was made King-Beyond-the-Wall by acclamation.

He had remained with in the Thenn valley for sometime, negotiating a unity between his people and the Thenn. As stubborn and greedy as they were, the Theen was not one that dishonored the code of hospitality. He had rode with Tormund Giantsbane, his most trusted lieutenant and friend over the last few years, along with some capable Wildling warriors to the valley to talk with the Magnar of the Thenn. His name? Styr, a fierce warrior that Mance was highly impressed of.

Unlike the other wildling clans, the Thenn actually have lords (more like hereditary chieftains), and live under established laws that they enforce. As a result they are the most disciplined of the wildling clans, making them organized and dangerous in combat; they also possess the most advanced armor and weaponry among the Free Folk. The Magnar's followers worship the man like a god, and follow every order, however ridiculous.

Mance was eventually interrupted of his rest when Tormund stormed inside his tent. A large, muscled figure with thick red proportion of hair on both his head and beard.

"There's something you should see, Mance. One of the Thenns had been killed during their scouting outside of the valley."

The older man opened his eyes. "Show me."

The pair exited the tent and came upon the village center located at the base of the green valley. Styr was waiting with his men, inspecting a bloody carcass that lacked a head. There was nothing more than a stump on the mangled body, the insides having been relieved of what blood was lift.

"What happened here?" asked Mance, currently followed Tormund and his other accomplices, with a concerned expression on their faces. "By the gods of the old."

"Indeed." the Magnar answered. "My men had never known of other Free Folk capable of exploding other's heads upon their will. The scouts recalled hearing a sound comparable to the eruptions of volcanic areas further north of the valley. As far as I know, molten rock do not walk."

"And what do you propose we do here, Styr?" Tormund asked. "You know we ain't have nothing to do with this."

"Stand down, Tormund. Let's not get any more aggravated than we could. We are here as guests. Let us not tarnish our relations." Mance returned his attention towards the sadistic cannibal before him. "Any other details that your men wish to enlighten me with?"

"They do." the Magnar answered. "Before their prey had escaped, they heard the galloping steps of horses, with men mounting them clad in coats as as blue as the darkest depths of the Shivering Sea."

"What do you make of this, Mance? That sound like any Free Folk to you?" asked Tormund.

"No." the older man replied. "This is something else. These were no wildings or kneelers."

"Then what are they?" the Magnar said, looking at the dead corpse. "It's such a pity though."

"I do not know. But I do know this: we have a threat in our midst."

The meeting dispersed without word, and Mance retired to his quarters. He heard the Thenn leader, not wanting to waste precious meat, send for the cookers to roast the cadaver for tonight's feast. Mance would not be participating in it, and neither will Tormund or his men. They had something else much more important to discuss about. The alliance would have to wait for now.


	4. Chapter IV

**AN** : As always, I do not own anything. Enjoy the story.

But first, Let's answer some reviews!

 **Bataaf** : Thanks for reading! I'll be sure to keep this story going!

 **RedSword12** : In truth, it would be a bad idea to allow the Starks into the 'fray' (hehe, get it?). Napoleon would definitely look for more powerful Great Houses and allies. But as of now, he only has limited choices until he shows the true power of the French Grand Army. The Thenns, along with Mance Rayder's army, should suffice for the time being. Them being the Free Folk, and the French maintaining revolutionary ideology, would be a big plus for the long term. While Napoleon maybe a monarch, the people ultimately love him. I think the Free Folk will be more accepting for the Emperor.

 **Guest** : Hold your horses, my friend. Merely a contemplation. When the time comes, I'll decide the fate of the Prince Who Was Promised, along with rest of the wolf pack.

 **Shockeye7665** : Appreciate it! Thanks for reading once again!

 **Harry Lannister** : Jon Snow will have his uses, in the mean time. Since it's still way early into the story, since during this time, since Robert is yet to arrive at Winterfell. And it is very much possible that Mance Rayder would ally with Napoleon, with promises of refuge in the South of course. I'll try not to underpower the Grand Army, or overpower it either. It is in a weakened state, low on supplies and munitions, which must be settled first before any warring can happen. I'll be sure to keep the anticipation high. Thanks for the review!

 **Sciny** : Seems to me I just overlooked him. Plus, my sources are very limited to Wikipedia (which I know is a very vague source for historical information; a book would rather do). I'll be sure to include him in the foreseeable future. Thanks for reading!

 **Guest** : Thanks!

 **Lord Trump** : Indeed, 'Elysian Valley' (as named by Charles Minard) is the Thenn, where the Thenns live. I believe it would be a 'blast' when the French (and their allies) and the Thenns encounter each other. I wouldn't necessarily destroy Craster's Keep, as it can be a useful invasion point or base of operations should Napoleon decide to attack the Wall. Right now, his primary objective is to get a steady supply of nutrition for the Army. It'll be a challenge.

 **CosmicPanda** : Thanks for the information! I'll be sure to take it into account. :)

 **Guest** : Of course, but if you take into account supplies, munitions, and many other factors, Napoleon wouldn't be able to handle a war until he gets a steady supply of both. Glad you enjoy it so far!

 **ficreader2011** : I'll be sure to post as soon as possible!

 **expert39** : Mance Rayder and Napoleon would definitely have to work something out. Napoleon wants to rule Westeros, Mance Rayder wants a refuge south of the Wall for all Wildlings. There definitely is a possibility for an alliance, which doesn't have to be bred with bloodshed.

 **Prince of Petersburg** : The title is French for "The Iron Emperor", a nod to the "blood and iron" policy of Otto von Bismarck and, surprisingly obvious, the Iron Throne. In this case, with thirty thousand soldiers, there would be a possibility someone at least knows the language in the ranks, but through research, I haven't found any hint that someone would have known English. This chapter will definitely see some of the foreign marshals reacting to their current predicament, as hinted by the title "Lingua Fraca."

 **RedSword12** : Though I am not as inclined to begin including magic early on into the story, I definitely agree with your logic. The politics of Game of Thrones is what made me interested in the books and the TV show as well, which led me to writing this story just to get those ideas out. The White Walkers and their minions will come in the foreseeable future, just as when Napoleon is in his most vulnerable and when he least expects an attack: seating on the Iron Throne. As far as I know, the Red God is what comes closest to the God of the Earth, and the Great Other being the Devil.

 **Guest** : Tried to base him off as close as possible to both the books and the TV show. Generally, he looks like a punchable douchebag, but is actually skilled in whatever farce he starts spiting out. Thanks for reading!

 **osterreicher97** : Thanks for the review! I have nothing else to say, but cultural wise, it would definitely be a hectic mess.

 **ATP** : With an army of thirty thousand? There might as well be a possibility that some of the French, Polish, Prussian, Italian, or Austrian auxiliary forces would know English. The Children? They might as well see Napoleon as a threat. The Three-Eyed Raven, as manipulative he is, may be the only chance the Army has in facilitating a treaty of alliance and peace between the Napoleon and his army with the more magicks aspects of Westeros. That would only come when the White Walkers arrive.

: The Thenn has many resources and is practically an oasis within a winter wasteland. If somehow, Napoleon's engineers managed to manufacture an obsidian-based ammo, and enough gunpowder, they can beat the Wights and the White Walkers.

 **selenepotter** : Conquering the Thenns can go two ways: defeat or a pyrrhic victory, which can also be seen as defeat. Keep in mind that the Grand Army has very scarce munitions, as during their retreat, many French transportation trains were separated and hunted down by Russian forces, broke down, or the soldiers were forced to leave them due to dead weight. The trains included lots of ammo. Suppose that Napoleon tried to be logical, he would make an alliance with the Thenn and the Mance Rayder: help him invade the Seven Kingdoms and provide supplies, while he helps them, in exchange, by guaranteeing them a refuge south of the Wall.

The show must go on!

* * *

 **Chapter IV — Lingua Franca**

 _"Do you think the Dothraki scare me? I am the Horseman of Europe!"_

 _— Joachim of House Murat, 304 AC_

* * *

 **Will**

It had only been a day since he was captured by the men in strange garments, or should he say, 'saved' from those vile creatures he only knew from legend to be the heinous creatures of the Long Night. The White Walkers, as they were called in the old and wizened tales of the ancient, were demonic beings who had penultimate control over ice and snow and the cold. During the Long Night, they brought the storm with them: a winter that lasted for a generation, and nearly causing the annihilation of the First Men eight thousand years ago. Now he was here, contemplating on what should happen next. Should he warn these people? Should he, at least, try to communicate with their leaders and share the news of such beasts from the Lands of Always Winter?

Will had since been traumatized about the events of that encounter, but never really bothered showing the chaotic state of his mind. His head was playing tricks on him, ideas and thoughts were contradicting each other, resulting in confusion, frustration, and him generally delving into the realm of madness and sickness. His thoughts, though, didn't necessarily reflect his outside actions. He was always blanking out, still, and doing nothing in particular. A couple of times during the, the soldiers in blue brought him to several locations throughout the camp, the strange men trying to interrogate him in various languages and dialects he didn't even understand: French, German, Italian, and Russian. Not that Will knew of these languages, he simply didn't know what to make of them—other than a string of words that made weird sounds and clicks with the mouth. It was uncomfortable to hear.

Throughout their brief sessions, that usually ended in failure due to the language barrier, he would contemplate of the death of Gared. He didn't know of the fate of Ser Royce. Either he died, or also somewhat escaped. He remembered that happenstance well. The head of his fellow comrade, sliced clean from the neck, and landing upon his own bruised hands. Will felt the warm blood that made it's way around his palms, crawling, showcasing a most gruesome scene. The body, headless, slumping into ground and spurting gallons of blood into the white ground. He thought of those same haunting, blue eyes, staring directly towards his soul. Will almost thought the Walker was smiling before it disappeared with the wind, forever immortalizing that sense of fear he had for the creatures of the Night.

Every now and then, he would wake from the same dream over and over again. Head, blood, corpse, and blue eyes. Will cursed at every inch of his being, as the mind boggling session was making him mad. Almost as if, he wanted to die. Just end all of it. To end the dreams. What good would these strange men do? Nothing. Nothing would stop the Long Night. Nothing can stop the Night King from destroying all life as he knew. He spent most of his times isolated, in the confines of a tent surrounded by a dozen or so guards. He had no sword, no intention to escape, and most importantly, no will to live. Will? Such a stupid name!

Until of course, that fateful day, several cycles of dusks and dawns, that he met a peculiar man.

It was his fourth, what, fifth day in the encampment? It didn't really matter to him, as he awoke from a deep slumber. That same thrice-damned dream had happened again, like it always did. At least, the provisioned bed was a nice touch to the 'captive' things. It was cold, but warm enough to be comfortable with his surroundings. The tent's fabric cover dances gracefully with the breeze outside, coupled with the shuffling of men moving about, in continuation to their monotonous tasks. Whatever they did, Will didn't have the time to be concerned with them. He had his own mind to repair.

He was jolted into attention as guard forces himself into the tent's interior.

"Se lever. C'est ton jour de chance." the guard announced. "Nous avons trouvé un traducteur pour vous."

Will could swear he heard the word "chance" in between the man's barking. It could mean a lot of things. Was it his last chance? Has his luck truly ran out with these men? After all, Will had only seen himself as nothing more than dead weight for his captors. He wouldn't speak. Even if he could, he wouldn't try. Will wasn't one for revealing the secrets of the Nights's Watch.

His thoughts was interrupted as two more guards went inside the tent and grasped him around the arms. Making no effort in struggling, Will relaxed his composure and let the men drag him outside. The bitter cold came biting back at him—his current rage far too obsolete at the moment. The weather up farther north was something he wasn't accustomed to. And his frail and thin body frame had suffered because of it. His eyes were met with the camp's view, with it's rows and boulevards of tents and fireplaces, where grey smoke arose to the sky. The sunlight was enough for him to see as far as he needed, but it was incredibly scarce. The icy clouds were covering the sky again. He hoped to see the blue facade of the heavens once more, before his inevitable doom. He only hoped, but did not persist on with the wish.

Will began fixinf his stature and walked, the guards finally letting go of him. The procession succeeded with shackles to his wrist, rendering them useless, resting at his behind. What a truly effective way of incapacitating a unarmed man.

The guards marched him across the camp, some of the other soldiers often stealing glances from him every now and then. He realized then that these men had great disdain for anything associated with him. They scowled, and often, blurted out what sounded like insults. Very, very severe insults.

A man garbed in a green coat, holding at his arm what looked to be a brass helm, shouted "Merde!" The guards broke out into a chuckle, while the other bystanders wore grins that signified satisfaction. Why the soldiers loathed him so much, he did not know. The laughing died down some seconds later, the piercing gaze darting behind his head like a spear.

After a minute of walking, they came upon the interrogator's tent. He was familiar with it, now. It was larger, much more cleaner than the other tents strewn about the camp in orderly fashion, and above the roofing was two poles that sprouted out of the pale fabrics, bearing trianglular flags that was clad in blue, white, and red. They entered the shelter within a blink of an eye, the guards paying no mind that the flaps had just swatted the base of his face. He heard a faint gulp, perhaps, an attempt in trying to hold back laughter. Will didn't care, though.

The interior was composed of the same rectangular table, with two chairs facing from opposite sides, and a light dangling from the supports of the tent. It was an almost hexagonal encasing, black colored, and glass surrounding the device. Inside, a small fire, sufficient enough to light the tent, was glowing with no clear source of fuel. He wondered how that worked. Perhaps magic was involved. Will had seen children rise from their graves, and a White Walker, cleanse his companion of a head. It wasn't too far fetched at this point.

He was seated, albeit forcefully, on the leftmost chair. The guards left briefly, leaving him all alone. Silence grew from within the tent, until of course, he came to the deduction that someone else was here. He could hear the subtle breathing, the wind channeling into the nose and out.

"Tu es intéressant, mon garçon." a voice said nonchalantly, to which Will assumed was from the shadowy abyss presented before him. He had to be honest to himself—while the makeshift chamber had light, it didn't really cover the entire tent. "Vous n'êtes clairement pas Anglais. J'ai vu des gens comme toi. Vous n'êtes pas l'un d'entre eux."

"Pas à l'académie, au moins."

Will merely glanced into the darkness, his eyes empty. He couldn't answer. He didn't understand. He simply ignored any attempt at communication.

"You better pay attention, boy. Or you will find yourself out of a bed to sleep on. You can join the wolves perhaps. After all, with the rags you call clothing, you look like one." the voice stated with a threatening tone.

Will was shocked—no—astonished that the voice had spoken the Common tongue. He hadn't heard of it for at least a week now. Ever since that day. Oh how he hated it with such a passion, and a same time, he mourned for his dead brothers. Gared the Elder, and Waymar the Boisterous. It almost made him chuckle. Yet, he refused to acknowledge his amusement and remained the empty shell. At first, he didn't want to answer. Now, he wanted assurance. Will needed to talk to someone who would understand him. Some who could comprehend the situation he found himself in.

"I-" he started, before pausing to gather his thoughts. "Y-you... you... you s-speak Common?" His voice was as weak as he remembered, trembling and faint. Such a pitiful thing to hear.

"Common?" the voice answered back. There were no sounds for some time, and instead, the raspy voice replaced with subtle footsteps. Then, from the void, emerged a man in his early forties, clad in a Marshal's extravagantly complex blue uniforms, teaming with golden epaulets and linings, and several emblems and symbols that hang loosely from the figure's torso. His face maintained a pale white, plumpish semblance, with graying sideburns and bald scalp. The commander, as Will had presumed him to be, approached the table and proceeded to rest himself upon the chair. The man's expression remained stone hard, not changing. It was a disciplined face, with no scowl or contempt clearly being interpreted. Though, his voice was harsh from before, he knew that it was necessitated to grab his feigning attention.

"Tell me, boy. Who do you think we are?" the bald man blurted out is askance.

"I-I... I d-don't know." Will replied weakfully. He had to give it to him. This interrogation was by far, the most effective, even with the clear lack of progress at the moment.

"Well, that makes it more necessary that I talk to you about it." the man huffed, shuffling about his chair and unbuttoning his outer garments, repositioning himself on the coarse seating as if getting ready to tell a story.

"I am Marshal Louis-Nicolas d'Avout, First Duke of Auerstaedt, and First Prince of Eckmuhl. My name had been stylized to be Davoust, with an s, but I'm sure it doesn't matter to you barbarians anyways." the man started to introduce himself. He adjusted about his seat to get a much more comfortable bearing. "You are under the jurisdiction of the General Staff of the Grand Army of the First French Empire, and is hereby, prisoner to our cause. We came to believe you to be an Englishman, or one of Wellington's cockroaches, but that doesn't look like it."

Will remained silent throughout the latter's dialogue, mouth hanging open as he sat there, agape. How could this man know Common when all others here had been talking to him in their bastard languages? He almost went mad listening to their internal dealings and salutations. Why couldn't this 'Davoust' visit him earlier?

"BOY!"

"Boy! I want your name! Give me a name!" Davoust snapped in a detesting tone. The younger man's reverie was quickly halted, jolting the shackled Will.

"M-my... The name's W... Will... my Prince." the boy replied, the last word coming out after a few seconds of thought.

"My Prince? Do I look like a monarch to you?" the Marshal replied in ridiculing manner, standing up from his seat, and grasping the surface of the table as if to stand over the prisoner. The gesture echoed 'You are beneath me.'

"My Prince, are you not one?" Will responded with a question. "The Prince of Eckmool?" The name was entirely butchered by the Westerosi.

"First Prince of Eckmuhl." Davoust corrected, changing the pronunciation of the phrase. His tone seemed to have simmered away, as the man returned to his seat. "But, no, I am not of nobility. It is but a title, given to me by my Emperor, as part of my shared victory over the Battle of Eckmuhl—a village in Bavaria, Germany."

Will simply looked confused, not knowing of the places the Marshal has mentioned. Mayhaps, he speaks of his homeland? This Germany? But he said the 'French Empire' before. He spoke of a Grand Army, supposedly, the armed people of this Empire. As in, like the legends of the Valyrian Freehold before the Doom? It was all too much to think about, as his head was lost in a maze of questions, questions that led to more questions, and answers that led to dead ends. They must be really, really far away from home. Far from even Essos. During his tenure as a poacher, he heard of stories, tall tales about the lands beyond the the Red Waste and the sea to the west of this continent.

"Where do you hail from, boy?" the Marshal auipped, the derogatory manner of his voice once again making a resurfacing.

"The Riverlands, milord. Seagard to be precise. Far down south." the boy quickly rebutted.

"The Riverlands?" Davoust retorted, confused. "C'est vrai alors. Nous ne sommes plus en Russie comme nous en sommes venus à présumer toutes ces nuits."

Will didn't follow, but continued with his explanation. "It's a kingdom, milord. Ruled by House Tully of Riverrun. One of the nine in all of the Seven Kingdoms."

"And how did you come all the way here, Will?" said Davoust, currently eyeing the prisoner carefully and closely.

"Milord, I had taken the black," Will paused for a while to garner his thinking, "I was caught by Lord Jason Mannister for killing a buck. He owns the land, he says. Didn't want my hand hacked off with a sword, I swore myself to the service of the Night's Watch."

Will later realized his mistake. He had not only revealed private information regarding his life, but also unveiling the existence of the Night's Watch to these foreigners. It wasn't looking good. If the Marshal pushed any further, he would refuse. But there would be consequences. Though, the entirety of life is in peril, he couldn't just let his brothers down. Them, who had called him a savage when the true barbarians of these lands are the Wildlings.

As he had expected, Davoust pushed anyway.

"The Night's Watch?"

He tried to be as discreet as possible with his next words. Will had to be careful. He couldn't reveal anything that may pose a threat to the order.

"A military order, milord, to man the Wall."

"The Wall?"

"You do not know of the Wall, milord? Built by Bran the Builder? To defend Westeros from the Long Night and the nightmares in brings with it?"

Davoust merely shrugged. "Please do enlighten me of this... Wall. This is getting more and more interesting."

"It is a great barrier of ice and snow, milord, that separates the Seven Kingdoms and the Lands of Always Winter along the Gift. The Night's Watch has manned the Wall for thousands of years."

All that came from the older man was a frown, then a confused look, then a scowl that was filled even more fury. The scowl was reduced to a glare, and the commander promptly stood up from his chair. It was time to leave.

"I think that will be enough," the man commented, "if what you tell is true, then we will have to move. You will accompany us as we traverse the land. We have a map, but that is not enough. The Emperor wills it. Fail, and you will meet a fate much worse than death." The mood was bitter and grim. Clearly, the Marshal doubts the information he had provided. It would take more than that to gain the trust of these men. And this officer, who also seems to detest the presence of the Riverman with repugnance, is his only chance through their leader. Noble or not, he needed to warn them. And the Night's Watch too. Scrap that, the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms must know.

The Marshal tugged on his uniform, flattening it out to it's former image. His decorations twinkled with what light was available. Plopping his covers upon several steps into the exit, the older man turned and deepened his scowl, glancing over the Westerosi prisoner. His head immediately snapped back into a straightened direction and departing the tent. A pair of guards went inside to retrieve Will, who made no effort in struggling against them. Once again, he was carried back to his imprisonment, if you can even call it that.

Will was left once again to himself, a stranger in a sea of foreigners. Whoever this Davoust is, through him, he could, mayhaps, gain the trust of the Emperor he keeps concerning himself about. He couldn't escape. Not now. Not with his mindset—a convoluted mess of thoughts and bits and pieces of his consciousness, rummaged around the ground like the shattered debris of pottery. He couldn't just reveal it to him either. They'll think him mad. Will had to be useful at the time being. And when the time comes, when they meet the Night's Watch, he can spread the news.

The White Walkers are upon them.

* * *

 **The Germans**

Three men were not in a very satisfactory mood due to their current predicament. The Emperor of the French Napoleon had told them of very dour news: the Grand Army and it's foreign attachments had been transported to an unknown land. A land where no map had shown, no book had studied or described, no man experienced. At least, to their knowledge, none of the French, Italians, enthnic Germans, Slavs, Dutch, or other foreigners had ever seen. Their latest meeting was but a several days ago, with the onset arrival of the French 1e Éclaireurs Scout Regiment, forty six dauntless men who had traversed the snowy wilderness through thick brawn and a willful drive to survive the near impossible. The horsemen, along with one Monsieur Charles Minard of the Geographical Engineering Crops, has drawn them a map of key geographical points, elevations relief, and the mentioned paradise of the "Elysian Valley", courtesy of the cold hearted engineer, and it's favorable locality as a haven for the Grand Army.

The Grand Army was to start marching in twenty-four hours time, tomorrow noon, when the sun was at it's highest and the weather was in it's least most rancorous plight. The Austrian Corps, within the confines of the 'Southern Flank', would begin it's movement aside the much larger Central, Left, and Right Flanks.

Not that it concerned them. The trifecta of ethnic German commanders were particularly happy that they were placed in such positions: among their friends, their brothers, their family.

At first, Marshals Karl Philipp, Johann Yorck, and Julius von Grawert desired to instigate a rebellion from the Army's interior, thinking the Emperor mad and insane. They didn't believe that the Grand Army was transported. Lies, lies, and more lies by the French. Their deception only reaches so far. However, the map they have been shown pacified their fears and gave rise to much newer eccentricities. Scouts from their regiments contradicted their description of the lands. There were no towns or cities. Settlements were lacking. Where fledgling foundations of villages were supposedly found had been replaced with barren soil, more snow than they could remember, and the same pattern of lush forests. Forests that bore no fruit or chirped no sound. Game was scarce, where witnessing wolves and stags was nothing more than rare occasion. Where mountains or hills should have been standing were plains of decaying grass and the frozen steam of ghostly trees. No mud roads, bridges, streams, or windmills. No supply posts or signs. Only snow: that maddening sight of white blankets that had plagued their dreams for days now. Their nightmares became of frost, not war. The fear of dying in this frozen tundra was agonizing. Just imagining it was enough to make men vomit and sickly. To die at the hands of the enemy was honorable, to fight and perish in the field of battle. But to spoil in a land of never ending winter, alone and without your comrades to comfort you. It was most unacceptable.

Circumstances had also led to their separation from their homelands. What would become of them now? The only people of Germanic descent to exist, currently in this world, far away from their peacetime friends, clans, families, and compatriots. What would happen to the their monarchs, leaders, and lords? Would they weep for the loss of their beloved men, or would they remain unflinching, without as to so much as to batter an eye that their own soldiers had disappeared. The trio contemplated that future of Europe: would the disappearance of the Grand Army lead to another war? Would Russia invade Poland and course into the Prussian and Austrian heartlands? Would the British, seeing this as a weakness, finally defeat the French? So many possibilities. Yet, they were here. They would no say in the upcoming future of that land, that world from afar. They were to concern themselves with now, the present day, in the rugged terrains of hoarfrost and rime. They were to represent the Austrian and Prussian legions and preserve German culture. After whatever ventures the Emperor of the French had surmised, they would settle, forget about war, and simply live in peace.

The crowd of three were meeting at their usual time of the day, along with other foreign generals akin to the ways and blood of the Germanic tribes. Karl Philipp was dominating the conversation, with his white uniform coating, embroidered in golden linings that boasted wavy patterns, signifying a sense of wealth and power. To complete the regalia were scarlet wrist cuffs and trousers, a black gold-lined bicorne cover, and a white-red and green straps. The Prince of Schwarzenberg sported dark brown hair, a broad and roundish face, with growths about his pale cheeks.

"It is imperative we decide on the matter at hand. We must forge are loyalty to Napoleon if the German line is to survive in this harsh new world." he said in a prevailing tone, swaying the other commanders to his will. They agreed thoughtfully, seeing the distinguishable logic within his words. To rebel was to commit self-destruction. The French were much more numerous, and a revolt by the ethnic German population of soldiers, horse riders, and supporting personnel would not bode well for their survival. They would be executed, or worse, cast out of the Army and cursed to forever wonder flat plains and jagged rocks of this God-forsaken realm.

Marshals Yorck and Grawert were listening intently, and as the sole representatives of the Prussian faction, had taken the responsibility to enforce their judgment on the younger Marshal's words. Clad in their black Prussian uniforms, with red colors embellished of golden designs, the German Iron Cross gilding their coats, and golden chords hanging from their wares, the two were wizened and seasoned commanders from the Prussian army. Yorck was reaching in his late fifties, as reflected from a balding scalp and is golden locks being replaced with grey ones. Grawert was in his sixties and is approaching the age of the sulky elderly. Indeed, the old man was as sulky as he was aged. Stretch marks, eye bags, and cracked lips was a common sight with the Prussian officers. He had thought of retiring soon, but the situation has effectively delayed his desired wish to rest.

"While he may not be our Frederick or our Francis, we are still allied to him. Our duty is to fight, and Napoleon as a monarch himself, we are obligated to fight for them. The French, Polish, and Italian commanders have given us their blessings and trust. If they fight for the entire Grand Army, then we shall do so with them. Thus, our honor calls." the younger Marshal continued. While the politics of the Army was strained at best, the Germanic generals had given their grunts of accord. Still bitter, though, with the Prussian and Austrian defeats, the consequences had vociferated an effort for coordination with their allies and compliance to the demands of the high French command. It was a sacrifice, no, a gamble they're willing to risk.

The generals and Marshals, after much discussion, returned to their posts, others their quarters, to think for themselves.

Whatever shall fate hold for them? Only time will tell.

* * *

 **Claude**

Daybreak was as malicious as ever. Fortunately, the fresh scent of evergreen trees were able to trample that persisting stench of city and village crap and reeking of manure. His nose was itching from the continuous aroma of horse shite, steaming coffee, boiling soups, and the whiffs of the ash from firewood. He chuckled. At times, the Colonel missed the Austrian and Polish countrysides, the Italian rolling hills and terrains of greenery, olives, and shrubs. The Alpines to the south of Tyrol, and the flatlands of rural France, specifically the spacious outskirts of Paris.

Claude Testot-Ferry was currently tending to his horse, which he had named ironically named _Hiver_ , the French terminology for _winter_. Apart from his personal steed was another twenty thousand, dragged around the camp, ridden, and sometimes rested with dry hay and water. Luckily for him, Napoleon's plans had not included the reintegration of the _1e Regiment d'_ _Éclaireurs_ _à Cheval_. He himself had grown accustomed to his fellow cavalrymen. The engineer Charles Minard befriended the Colonel after their time during the expedition. Their little adventure, however, was a success. The men had celebrated, and Napoleon himself and other elite commanders praised the Éclaireurs for their bravery and on-time arrival. Their efforts had been met with rewards: Claude was to be given the post of _Colonel_. Relatively, Minard was promoted as _Lieutenant_ , and the Éclaireurs given honors after they have completed their scouting mission. Unfortunately, Minard was told to stay. His new friend had said something about "receiving new responsibilities" from the Emperor. Another had replaced him as the regiment's chief cartographer.

The men around him were hastily moving about the camp, the friction of their boots creating heat hot enough to create an almost disgusting cocktail of slush, mud, and grime. The soil was squishy, making sounds that was comedic. Yet, it wasn't really suited with the circumstances. He was in high hopes, yes, but amusement wasn't currently in his mind. Tents were being brought down one by one, of all sixes and shapes, from officers' quarters, to stocks, and the regular cone-shaped and triangular prisms of a soldier's temporary sleeping places. Line infantrymen retrieved their knapsacks and kits, holding muskets with the butt on hand and the barrels staring towards to sky.

An amalgamation of blue greatcoats flowed along the paths, filling Claude's eyes. Grenadiers, fusiliers, voltigeurs, carbiniers, and chasseurs, all marching, drilling, and running about for the incoming departure of the Grand Army's regiments. Musicians, drummers, and cornets were gathering their drums, flutes, and instruments to prepare for the force's marching band. To entertain the troops, and for the lack of a better word, cause the encouragement of the marching soldiers and reduce mental fatigue. Physical exhaustion was an entirely different matter.

Claude witnessed the pretty-faced vivandières and cantinières, one of the many women attached to the battle formations. They carried metal pails, tables, and even medical supplies and cloths for aid. Some were married, some weren't. What had caught Claude's attention was a particularly lovely lady: blond hair, blue eyes, and thin pink lips. Maybe, he would get to talk to her. This was a new world anyways. There are many possibilities. And it's prime time, the French did some repopulating on its own. Spread the language, encourage the culture, after the war is done. When the war is finished. He suspected that all was in Napoleon's hands now. Their very livelihoods depend on the outcome of this entire charade.

Their dresses of smooth frabrics and white cloths swayed as they heaved with them loads of pitchers, pots for cookery and boiling, as well as platinum-like platters either for some grub, to carry shot glasses, or deliver drinks to men who were wasting themselves away through the night. Did he mention they have liquor? All manner of beverages: from beer, spirits, rum, and even wine for the more expensive and elegant soldier. Not those run-of-the-mill recruits and volunteers who had signed their lives away for a little taste of glory and victory. Claude's thoughts later averted back to his brothers-at-arms.

The columns and rows of movement also included artillery pieces, hauled of by horses and their riders with ammunition carts and caissons, narrow wooden containers that had sloping lids hinged to open, and the insides separated into compartments for a complement of rounds. Claude noticed a spare wheel attached to it's backside. The pieces were followed by the cavalry itself: horse carbiniers, hussars, Chasseurs-a-cheval, lanciers, and curiassers with different colors of uniform, their exact design and form, and the horse themselves, with shades varying from roan to liver, and palomino to dun. He could hear the yells of commanders, followed by the compliance of their subordinates and privates. Claude had then restored his admiration for Marshal Murat. He had to had it to him: the man was a legend amongst cavalrymen.

When the rest of the Éclaireurs had finally gathered, the encampment was near empty. The Army's bulk was gathered in an open field to the west, down the hill the main encampment zone was located, where dust and snow was arising from the ground. Claude from afar could see the formations of the line regiments, creating a sea of mismatching blue and black covers. Companies of horse riders were aligned with friendlies, walking in slow paces to make way for their positions. In the front of each battalion were their colors, flying high from tall masts embellished with the Imperial Golden Eagle. Indeed, a sight to behold. Trailing behind the battalions were non-combatants: surgeons, aides, shoemakers, gaiter-makers, gunsmiths, tailors, the musicians themselves, seeing the music of the march. Joyful hymns that were known for reinvigorating the spirit of winded fellows. Claude had also taken interest in the flying colors of the auxiliary forces: the white and red shades of the Polish national banner, the black and yellow union of the Austrian foreigners, green-white-and-red of the Italians and Naples, and the white over blue fanions of Westphalia. There more flags to describe, and more than Claude could remember at the moment.

The Flanks stretched from side to side, and the organized crowds only grew larger and larger as the Éclaireurs were getting closer. One last look of assurance at the camp revealed it to be empty: the traces of footsteps and charred wood was apparent, but the Grand Army had salvaged everything useful. And yet, even with the daring and bittersweet nature of the climate, the men were high in their share of morale.

Other service regiments were using carriages for their tools and equipment. Trains and carts that contained their supplies, munitions, and extra stores for spare muskets, sabers, and other weapons were placed within the Central and Northern Flanks. They too were in the rear of the Central Flank, guarded by the reserved detachments of the Grand Army. Claude hoped Minard and his fellow intelligentsia would be well.

The Éclaireurs took their positions in front of the main battlements. Being the scouting force, they were responsible for surveying the path of the Grand Army as it makes it's way across the wilderness. When finally, the last of personnel had joined up, and the camp void of anything except mud, debris, and still-burning fires, Napoleon and his cohorts had signaled for the Army to begin it's departure. Horns screamed and drums rolled.

By God in Heaven, they had actually started moving!

* * *

 **Jérôme**

Jérôme's general staff was arrayed through the forepart of the Northern Flank, the line infantry regiments calmly tracing behind him. They themselves were mounted onto horses, trotting along the blank surfaces of snow and permafrost. The commander of the I Cavalry Corps, Marshal Joachim Murat, was galloping to the side of his brother-in-law, after temporary leaving his post as it's assigned head officer. The flamboyant King of Naples and Grand Duke of Berg had come upon he latter as a means to share of news: talks have started among the senior officials regarding the Grand Army's brief and mysterious transcendence into this plain of existence. Miracle or not, the Emperor of the French is planning to reveal the matter of fact publically in a speech he dares to take as soon as they reach Monsieur Minard's Elysian Valley.

"Good-brother." Marshal Murat greeted, and incredulously stepped into the way of Marshal Poniatowski. The Polish veteran leader was sullen, the skin and hairy growths on his cheeks and the under nose curving into a frown. His lips went thin, and without much to do to the Emperor's family or their whimsical doings, swerved out of the way. After a few short moments, he had returned to a conversation with the Prince of France.

"Napoleon, our ever so ambitious brother, has decided to reveal our situation to the rest of the soldiers as soon as we reach the Elysian Valley. I do wonder he will accomplish this, seeing that by the time we do arrive, in two week's time, there would be no men left." the Dandy King bursted into a fit. Jérôme did not respond, and only looked on into the chilled hellscape.

"You do not trust him?" Jérôme asked, never looking to his side. He stretched his neck to relieve him of the stress building up on his back. Horse riding wasn't really to his liking. "Even if he gave you proof?"

"I do. Don't get me wrong, I have admired him from my younger years. He is a hero to he people. He may not be close to me, but I am still loyal to him. Napoleon has brought me here, granted me titles only I could have dreamt of as a child. I don't need to float on the fact that he is distant from me. The very man who married his younger sister. And, I already have all the proof I require to believe." The First Horseman of Europe leaned in closer to his brother-in-law's ears. "There have been news from Marshal Davoust. His chats with our English prisoner has been more or less fruitful. I couldn't understand English myself, and to my chagrin, Davoust is still a sour loser, but he is loyal. Napoleon trusts him. We ca trust him to."

"What of it, King of Naples?" Jérôme said in askance, plainly engrossed of this news.

"The Englishman is no Englishman at all. Davoust claims that our guest hails from a place he calls the Riverlands, further south of our position. Thousands of miles, he says." the Marshal calmly whispered.

"There are lands here? Greener than the frozen hell we have been dropped into?" the Prince of France questioned, bewildered at such information.

"According to the prisoner, we are in the continent of 'Westeros'. Or something like that. The Land of the West. Apparently, we are in the North, beyond the Wall—a barrier of ice and snow several hundred feet high and hundreds of miles long."

Jérôme was agaped, both shocked and suspicious of the tales the Murat Prince had been sharing him. It couldn't be true. It would be impossible. A wall of ice? That couldn't any more further from the truth. "How do you know this is true?"

"We don't. That's why we showed him the map the Emperor had showed us from before. It seems he knows of the lands. He could complete our maps with the help of the Minard fellow. Of course, if he complies to our demands. He is a prisoner. Under our jurisdiction. That should be clarification enough for him to understand that, for our mutual benefit, we should cooperate with each other." Murat explained, often stealing glances from around the assemblage of living carcasses. "The Emperor already knows. No need to share it with him. Our oath demands that any information that comes to us be sent to him at the foremost time."

"How did Davoust know how to speak fluent English? I myself married an American but never fathomed to learn the damned language. I loved Elizabeth, but not the culture. I learnt it for her sake but forgot about it as soon as Napoleon coerced me back to France. Yet, I still wish to see the son I never had." Jérôme said solemnly, this time, without flinching his eyes at the mention of her name. The woman he loved, but never got together with. Curse Napoleon and his Goddamned bethrotals. It didn't work out for him the first time anyways.

"He learned. Davoust had studied English during his student years in the military college Auxerre, and then Ecole Militaire in Paris. Language is an important aspect of being a military commander, my Prince. We meet new faces and people everyday. I'd suggest doing that as well." Joachim muttered half-heartedly. "It does bore me to indulge you in such useless plights, and I find myself exhausted. I bid you adieu."

The Horseman's steed reverted it's course into the back of the huge arrangements of foot soldiers, cavalry, and artillery, to which he promptly returned to his commanding post. Marshal Poniatowski happily made his way beside the French Heir to the Throne.

"So, my Prince, what did the stallion gawk to you about this time?" the Polish commander asked in a comedic fashion. "Nothing too bland I presume?"

"Indeed. There are news, Józef. It might be key to our victory over these lands."

And so, Jérôme explained to his subordinate about the present state of things. Poniatwoski didn't take kindly to the news, an almost comic resent flowing over the Polish national, either because the Prince was playing with him through his made-up fantasies or that they were truly in a new world. He didn't even get to say goodbye to his family.

Napoleon had just recieved news of Davoust's little shenanigans, his thanks to his ever so devoted and staunch disciple. The Marshal had been interrogating their prisoner for a quite a while now. Not only was it days ago that the French commander reveal his expertise in the fluent expression of various languages: not only was he talented in the arts of French, but generally anything and everything that had do to with the Romantic languages. A little German here and there, and Russian and Polish too, but that was of no concern to the French monarch. He knew English, and the officer knew well. The battle hardened tactician never realized the importance of knowing your enemy. Well, he did know his enemy, but not the sense of their culture, understandings, ethics, or traditions. It was all bread and circuses to Napoleon. Only then, did he come to the comprehension that Machiavelli's words had come to life: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. This Englishman, no, 'Westerosi' as the Marshal has come to title the inhabitants of this continent, was an enemy, that, luckily for the Grand Army, has fallen into their hands.

Napoleon would use and push whatever knowledge this prisoner would spill out, even if he has to torture the fellow. This was war. While interrogation was all fun and dandy, watching men excrete themselves from outright verbal torment and threats, there are times when the extremities has to be used. Humans pushed to the limits and far beyond boundaries of what normal men could achieve. How does the water cure sound like? That was for another time, however. The Emperor was not a cruel person as to justify the torture of civilians without much as to provide clear reasoning for the actions of himself and his men. Then again, the Senate wasn't here. Another detail that Napoleon had taken to consideration, and quite possibly, one of the more favorable qualities of this sudden exchange between parallel realities.

The Central, Northern, and Southern Flanks has eventually separated, in which they preserved a distance of several leagues apart. This was done was to spread the area of coverage by the Army and create a free space for movement. It had been several hours now since the marching had commence, in which the Grand Army had effectively attained a few dozens of miles. The 1e Éclaireurs was already ahead, and would return the next day for reports. Morale was still high. The men were tired, yes, but that fleeting perception of perseverance has allowed the soldiers to persist on their seemingly never-ending trudge. The musicians' bands were still playing their tunes of patriotism, live for the French nation, and giving glory to the people of free Europe.

His general staff, with their company of stallions, were hiking along the middle of the Central Flank. Berthier's horse was flanking him to his left, and Marshal Neg to his right. Behind them were several other Marshals and generals, bickering among themselves gossips, whispers, and small talk. Marshals Oudinot and Macdonald were entranced in a conversation with the rough-faced Davoust, who was clarifying his talks with the English prisoner, speaking of tall tells that sounded mystical and fiction rather than fact. The Wall? The Gift? This Seven Kingdoms and their overtly obese monarch, if you can even consider him as one ('the Usurper', the boy had entitled the king), was even more preposterous to his hears. Napoleon was aware of the questions asked, and he himself, at firsthand, observed the 'talk' between the young boy and the loyal French commander. Things were progressively well in the long run.

Napoleon had given out a few words of inspiration to his fellow countrymen, his sons and children, to rally and embolden these able-bodied men-at-arms. There were screams of victory and prestige, as well as reprisals of courage, will, and praises to the Emperor. Napoleon had paraded himself around the assembled quarters, chanting remarks of continuing on the fight and wild utterances of riches, fame, and eminence. The men seemed to have taken a liking to this, displaying their loyalty by sustaining their paces for a few more hours.

The Central Flank halted in the midst of dying daylight, the sunset radiating an onimously orange glow from the horizon, the rays tarnished by falling snow and thick, dark clouds that had the audacity to ruin such a beautiful scene and engulf the calmed sky. Finally, the morning star was nothing more, and the Grand Army had made camp. Soldiers had settled into their tents and blankets. The men lay awaste, dreaming of their dreams and terrorized by their nightmares. Others were awake, keeping watch of the perimeter surrounding vast encampment of half-dead cadavers. The day had drawn into a close, leaving the fate of French and their many allies at the hands of this world's heavenly providence. Or worse, the chaotic instances that gave birth to reality itself, exploding and blazing like balls of fire and flame. When it comes to the stability of reality, it is always bound to converge to it's natural state of entropy: disarray, destruction, and pandemonium. It was this very same law that struck fear into the hearts of men.

Napoleon, in his temporary living quarters, had finally fallen asleep. What new destinies await them then? Will his plan for conquest succeed? Well, it should. He was Napoleon after all. The same staunch, stubborn, arrogant military genius and strategist that had George the Third, Frederick the Third, Francis the First, and Alexander the First a run for their money. He puppeted the Kingdom of Spain and Naples. He pushed the dastardly British out of the mainland. He had conquered Europe.

The prophesied second coming of Gaius Octavius Thurinus, the very same man who had brought all of Europe, North Africa, and Asia Minor to fold. To their knees. His legacy was his, and Napoleon's as well.

* * *

 **Mance**

"Did the scouts find anything?" Mance Rayder questioned the Magnar of the people of the Thenns, with their glorification of self-scarification and pale, bald complexions that were the very bane of their fierce warrior attributes and skill with the blade. The Thenns were one of the more advanced tribes of the Free Folk, capable of basic mining and forging of copper and tin. If one looked at the history books of that _other_ world, one would say they have remained in the Bronze Age for literally eight millennia.

"They did." Styr replied sternly, fumbling on his palm a small, grayish-black spherical object that reminded the Crow-raised Rayder of black pepper that the maester from the Black Castle. Or was it Castle Black? It didn't matter. He was getting old anyways.

"Wha'ever in the Old Gods' name is that?" asked Tormund, who was looking earnestly at the black ball. Mance would have expected the muscular brute to look disinterested in matters that involved investigation. The red head wasn't much more brains, but he did make it up for his brawn. Conjoin that with his dexterity with the blade or hammer and devoted adherence to anything the turncoat Wildling would blurt out, and you get one of your most faithful lieutenants. Which is precisely why Mance had brought him along this little diplomatic mission. Steadfast and strong, but wouldn't 'ave the audacity to butt in business he didn't belong to.

"This, Giantsbane, is what caused the demise of one of our hunters." Styr answered grimly. "My men found it lodged into a tree bark, an obvious impact crater around the little thing, and blood splattered all over, along with a piece of his brain on it. One of our spearwomen washed it to get a closer picture of the nasty bugger." The self-entitled God of the Thenns handed the compact object to Mance, who grasped out with his fingers. He rolled it around his palm, inspecting it when slight eye movements. Mance weighed it on his hands by plopping it up and down, and then, tossing it into the air for good measure. It wasn't light, or heavy either. The texture looked metallic enough with the naked eye.

"What do you make of it, Mance?" Tormund said in question. "How could 'at little thing kill someone?"

"I'm not sure." Mance answered implicitly. He flung the ball back onto the Magnar, who caught it with ease. The King-beyond-the-Wall stood up and made way for the hut's exit, but not before beckoning for Tormund to follow. The thick-bodied man prompted towards his leader.

"Where are you going?" Styr asked, slightly oblivious. Mance turned sharply to reply.

"I'm going out there. I need men, Styr. Whoever did this, they didn't do it for anything. Did your men somehow offend them in some way?"

"They were on a scout. Word has it that more Free Folk been disappearing nearby." the Magnar responded. "Poor fellow must 'ave tried to attack our mysterious friends."

"And that is why we must make peace with them. If what your men talks of is true, then they can kill without slashing their swords, or whatever monotonous means of killing they have against us. They saw your faces. If you had threatened them, then they won't hesitate to kill." Mance retorted. "It will be a massacre."

"So, you expect us to be afraid of whatever witchcraft you speak of? We 'ave wargs with us. Send the beasts of the snow agains their steel." another Thenn chimed in. A fighter and officer by the name of Loboda. It didn't roll well with Mance's Northern Common accent.

"Aye. I would expect it." He replied. "We need to survive, cooperate with together. I have told you, ALL of you of the coming winter, and the terrors that it will bring with it. I 'ave given you all proof. It be for the be'er to keep your words." Mance returned to his pace to depart the hut.

The Magnar of the Thenn chuckled. "Aye, I believe your words, King Crow." The mention of the name made Mance flinch slightly. "You'll get your men alright. I'll have Loboda and fifty men come with you."

"My thanks is yours, Magnar." Mance turned, relieved that he will get aid. Tormund simply stared blankly.

"Speak nothing of it, King-beyond-the-Wall. We, the Thenns, speak of the Old Tongue and proud descendants of the First Men, who have valiantly fought against the Night King and his armies. Aye, we believe in the gods of the Old and the Children. We aren't for bastardizing our culture like some kneeler or Andal cunt." Styr answered thoughtfully. "We are the Free Folk, after all. My sword is yours, Mance Rayder. You have my trust."

Mance nodded, and gestured for Tormund to come along.

"You got the Thenns with yah now, Mance. We can unite the Free Folk and head south." the younger burly man commented. "We can finish what we started-"

"We won't be getting south if we find and settle terms with this people and their ocean-blue wares." Mance rebutted quickly in a forbidding and serious tone. "Not now or ever. Those Thenns had declared war on whoever it is they saw. They did something to make 'em mad."

"What of it? We probably larger numbers than them. We can pound the bastards into dust. Spill their bloods and rip their hearts out."

"It won't be that easy. Not with that."

"The ball?" Tormund said in askance.

"Aye, the ball. They have something we don't, and I fear we won't be able to hold against it." Mance followed suit.

"You must scared out of your wits to believe that." Tormund quipped, which was proceeded with a long chuckle. The laugh died down, and he continued his comical rant. "The King-beyond-the-Wall scared of some kneeler heathens."

Mance didn't respond, and the pair headed for their tents. Mance, grabbing is gear, along with Tormund, made way for the village center. They would leave, as fast as possible. He wouldn't risk jeopardizing everything for a simple misunderstanding.


	5. Appendix I

**A/N: An updated rendition of the original Appendix I. After coming upon some new research, I've decided to change and add some aspects of the reorganized French Army, while still keeping some key elements. In fact, I have ignored many things that I regret would have helped Napoleon and his cohorts in the long run. So here it is:**

 **Once again, I do not own anything.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **THE FRENCH GRANDE ARMÉE**

 ** _Maison Militaire de l'Empereur_ (Military Household of the Emperor)**

 **Commander-in-chief: Napoleon the First (Napoleon I) of the House of Bonaparte,** **His Imperial and Royal Majesty,** **By the Grace of God and the Consitutions of the Empire, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, and Co-Prince of Andorra**

Aides-de-camp to Napoleon: Rapp, Lauriston, Longuerne, Hammer de Claribooke, Lebrun, Mouton, Durosnel, de Narbonne, Pac (Pole), Prince Sanguszko (Pole)

Grand Marshal of the Palace: Géraud Christophe Michel Duroc, 1st Duc de Frioul

Grand Master of Horse: Armand A.L. Caulaincourt

Le Petit Quartier Impérial: Auguste Caulaincourt

Chamberlain: de Turenne

Topographic Service: d'Albe

Head of military intelligence: Sokolnicki (Pole)

Les Maréchaux des Logis: de Ségur and de Canouville

Interpreters: Wasowicz (Pole), de Mautort, Belabre, d'Iderville

Gendarmerie: Grand Prévôst Lauer

General Administration: Mathieu Dumas

Medical Service: Desgenettes

Chief Surgeon: Larrey

Inspector of Reviews: Viénot-Vaublanc

 ** _Grand État-Major Général_ (Army General Headquarters)**

 **Chief of Staff: Major Général (Chief of Staff) Maréchal Louis-Alexandre Berthier, 1st Duc de Wagram, 1st Duc de Valengin, 1st Sovereign Prince de Neuchâtel**

Artillery: de Lariboisière

— Chief-of-staff of artillery: GdB Lallemand

—— Assistant chief of staff: Col. Marion

——— Director of Grand Park: Col. Neigre

——— Bridging Train: GdD Elbe (detached at Orsha)

Engineers: GdD Chasseloup-Laubat

— Chief-of-staff of engineers: Col. Liedot

——— Engineering Park Director: Col. Montfort

——— Topographic Service: GdD Sanson

Troops attached to MdE Berthier:

— French Elite Gendarmes [0.5 sq.]

— French 28th Chasseurs [2 sq.]

— Saxon Prince Albert Chevauxlegeres [1 sq.]

— Baden 2nd Line [1 btn.]

* * *

 **Northern Flank**

— X Corps 30,000 (Pr, Po, Bv, We) Maréchal Etienne-Jacques-Joseph-Alexandre MacDonald, Duc de Tarente; GdB Terrier (Chief-of-staff)

* * *

 **Central Force under the Emperor's personal command**

— Imperial Guard 30,000 (Fr, Po, Du, It, Pt, Sw, Sp) Maréchal Jean-Baptiste Bessières Duc d'Istrie (Guard Cavalry); Maréchal Pierre François Joseph Lefebvre Duc de Dantzig (Old Guard Infantry); Maréchal Adolphe Edouard Casimir Joseph Mortier Duc de Trévise (Young Guard infantry)

—— Guard Cavalry Division: GdD Walther

——— 1st Cavalry Brigade: GdB Lefevbre-Desnouettes

———— Guard Chasseurs-a-Cheval [5 sq.]

———— Mamelukes [0.5 sq.]

——— 2nd Cavalry Brigade: GdB St.Sulpice

———— Guard Empress Dragoons [5 sq.]

——— 3rd Cavalry Brigade: GdD Walther

———— Guard Grenadiers [5 sq.]

——— 4th Cavalry Brigade: GdB Krasinski

———— Guard Polish Lancers [4 sq.]

———— Polish Vistula Uhlans [0.5 sq.]

——— 5th Cavalry Brigade: GdB Colbert

———— Guard Dutch Lancers [4 sq.]

——— 6th Cavalry Brigade: GdD Durosnel

———— Elite Gendarmes [2 sq.]

——— 1er Régiment des Eclaireurs de la Garde Impériale (Fr, It, Sp, Sw, Ge) Colonel Claude Testot-Ferry

——— Artillery: Dubuar-Maren

———— I Horse Battery of Old Guard [6 guns]

———— II Horse Battery of Old Guard [6 guns]

—— 1st 'Young Guard' Infantry Division: GdD Delaborde

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Berthezene

———— 4th Voltigeurs [2 btns.]

———— 5th Voltigeurs [2 btns.]

———— 4th Tirailleurs [2 btns.]

—— 2nd 'Young Guard' Infantry Division: GdD Roguet

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Lanaberre

———— 1st Voltigeurs [2 btns.]

———— 1st Tirailleurs [2 btns.]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Boyledieu

———— Fusliers-Chasseurs [2 btns.]

———— Fusiliers-Grenadiers [2 btns.]

——— Artillery: Col. Villeneuve

———— III Foot Battery of Young Guard [8 guns]

—— 3rd 'Old Guard' Infantry Division: GdD Curial

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Boyer

———— 1st Chasseurs [2 btns.]

———— 2nd Chasseurs [2 btns.]

———— I Foot Battery of Old Guard [8 guns]

———— II Foot Battery of Young Guard [8 guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Michel

———— 1st Grenadiers [2 btns.]

———— 2nd Grenadiers [2 btns.]

———— Dutch 3rd Grenadiers [2 btns.]

——— Artillery

———— II Foot Battery of Old Guard [8 guns]

———— I Foot Battery of Young Guard [8 guns]

—— Guard Artillery Reserve: GdD Sorbier

———— Sapper Company of the Old Guard

———— Guard Marines [2 companies]

——— Foot Artillery: Col. Druout

———— IV Foot Battery of Old Guard [8 guns]

———— V Foot Battery of Old Guard [8 guns]

———— VI Foot Battery of Old Guard [8 guns]

——— Horse Artillery: GdB Desvaux St. Maurice

———— III Horse Battery of Old Guard [6 guns]

———— IV Horse Battery of Old Guard [6 guns]

——— Guard Engineer Park: GdB Kirgener

—— Attached to Imperial Guard 6,000 (Po, It, Sp) were many multinational units e.g. Vistula Legion, Velites of Turin and Florence, Spanish pioneer battalion.

——— Vistula Legion Infantry Division: GdD Claparede

Second-in-command: GdB Chlopicki

———— Infantry Brigade: GdB Chlopicki

————— 1st Line 'Vistula Legion' [2 btns. 2 light guns]

————— 2nd Line 'Vistula Legion' [2 btns. 2 light guns]

———— Infantry Brigade: GdB Bronikowski

————— 3rd Line 'Vistula Legion' [2 btns. 2 light guns]

———— Artillery

————— XIII Foot Battery/8th Foot Art. Reg. [6 guns]

— Grand Quartier, Headquarter's guard, Equipages, Artillery General Park, Engineers and other services 13,000 (Fr, Sw, Po, Pt) there were attached few multinational units e.g. Portuguese Chasseur a Cheval, Polish Vistula Uhlan, Neuchatel (Swiss) Battalion.

— I Corps 3,000 (Fr, Ba, Me, Ge, Du, It, Sp, Po) Maréchal Louis-Nicolas Davout, Duc d'Auerstaedt, Prince d'Eckmühl; GdB Romeuf (Chief-of-staff); GdD Pernetti (Artillery); GdB Haxo (Engineers)

—— Light Cavalry Division: GdB Girardin

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Girardin d'Ermenonville

———— Polish 9th Uhlans [4 sq.]

———— 2nd Chasseurs [4 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Bordessoulle

———— 1st Chasseurs [4 sq.]

———— 3rd Chasseurs [4 sq.]

—— 1st Infantry Division: GdD Morand

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB d'Alton

———— 13th Light [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Gratien

———— 17th Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Bonnamy

———— 30th Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Artillery: ChdB Beroville

———— I Foot Battery/7th Foot Art. Reg. [8 guns]

———— VII Horse Battery/1st Horse Art. Reg. [6 guns]

———— attached: Sapper Company

—— 2nd Infantry Division: GdD Friant

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Dufour

———— 15th Light [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB van Dedem de Gelder

———— 33rd Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: Col. Groisne

———— 48th Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

———— Spanish Joseph Bonaparte Line [2 btns.]

——— Artillery: ChdB Cabrie

———— II Foot Battery/7th Foot Art. Reg. [8 guns]

———— V Horse Battery/3rd Horse Art. Reg. [6 guns]

———— attached: Sapper Company

—— 3rd Infantry Division: GdD Gerard

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Leclerc des Essarts

———— 7th Light [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: Col. Baudinot

———— 12th Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Gerard

———— 21st Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

———— 127th Line [2 btns. 2 light guns]

——— Artillery: Col. Pelgrin

———— III Foot Battery/7th Foot Art. Reg. [8 guns]

———— IV Horse Battery/3rd Horse Art. Reg. [6 guns]

———— attached: Sapper Company

—— 4th Infantry Division: GdD Dessaix

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Friederichs

———— 85th Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Leguay

———— 108th Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

———— Hessen-Darmstadt Life [1 btn.] *

——— Artillery: ChdB Thevenot

———— IX Foot Battery/7th Foot Art. Reg. [8 guns]

———— II Horse Battery/5th Horse Art. Reg. [6 guns]

———— attached: Sapper Company

—— 5th Infantry Division: GdD Compans

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Dupellin

———— 25th Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Teste

———— 57th Line [5 btns. 4 light guns] "The Terrible"

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Guyardet

———— 61st Line [5 btns. 4 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Lonchan

———— 111th Line [3 btns. 0 light guns] *

——— Artillery: ChdB Klie

———— XVI Foot Battery/7th Foot Art. Reg. [8 guns]

———— II Horse Battery/6th Horse Art. Reg. [6 guns]

———— attached: Sapper Company

—— Reserve Artillery

———— III Foot Battery/1st Foot Art. Reg. [8 guns]

———— XVII Foot Battery/1st Foot Art. Reg. [8 guns]

———— VI Foot Battery/7th Foot Art. Reg. [8 guns]

———— attached: Sapper Company

— II Corps 11,000 (Fr, Ba, Sw, Cr, Pt, Du, Ge, Po) Maréchal Nicolas Oudinot, Duc de Reggio

— III Corps 3,000 (Fr, Wu, Pt, Ge, Il, Du, It) Maréchal Michel Ney, duc d'Elchingen; GdB Goure (Chief-of-staff); GdD du Careil (Artillery)

—— Light Cavalry Division: GdD Beurmann

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Gengoult

———— 6th Lancers [3 sq.]

———— 11th Hussars [4 sq.]

———— Wirtemberg. 4th Horse Jagers [4 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Beurmann

———— 4th Chasseurs [4 sq.]

———— Wirtemberg. 1st Horse Jagers [4 sq.]

———— Wirtemberg. 2d Horse Jagers [4 sq.]

——— Artillery

———— Wirtembergian [6 horse guns]

—— 10th Infantry Division: GdD Ledru

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Gengoult

———— 24th Line [2 btns.]

———— Portuguese 1st Line [1 btn.]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Marion

———— 46th Line [4 btns.]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Bruny

———— 72th Line [4 btns.]

——— Artillery: ChdB Ragmey

———— XII Foot Battery/5th Foot Art. Reg. [8]

———— V Horse Battery/6th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

———— attached: Sapper Company

—— 11th Infantry Division: GdD Razout

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Compere

———— Portuguese 2nd Line [1 btn.]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Joubert

———— 4th Line [4 btns.]

———— 18th Line [4 btns.] "The Brave"

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Henin

———— 93rd Line [4 btns.]

——— Artillery: ChdB Bernard

———— XVIII Foot Battery/5th Foot Art. Reg. [8]

———— VI Horse Battery/5th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

———— attached: Sapper Company

—— 25th Infantry Division: GdD Marchand

———— Wirtemberg. Tempor. Reg. [3 btns.]

——— Wirtembergian Artillery

———— Wirtemberg. I Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Wirtemberg. II Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Wirtemberg. I Horse Battery [4 guns]

—— Reserve Artillery: Col. Verier

———— XVI Foot Battery/1st Foot Art. Reg. [8]

———— Wirtemberg. Reserve Battery [5 guns]

———— Wirtemberg. light reg. guns [12 guns]

— Reserve Cavalry under Maréchal Joachim Murat, King of Naples, follow with central force

—— I Reserve Cavalry Corps 3,900 (Fr, Po, Pr, Ge) Général de division Compte de Nansouty; Col. de Saint-Henry (Chief-of-staff)

——— 1st Light Cavalry Division: GdD Bruyere

———— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Jacquinot

————— 7th Hussars [4 sq.]

————— 9th Lancers [4 sq.]

———— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Pire

————— 8th Hussars [4 sq.]

————— 16th Chasseurs [4 sq.]

———— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB

————— Polish 6th Uhlans [4 sq.]

————— Polish 8th Uhlans [4 sq.]

————— Prussian 2nd Conver. Hussars [4 sq.]

———— Artillery

————— VII Horse Battery/6th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

——— 1st Heavy Cavalry Division: GdD St.Germaine

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Bruno

————— 2nd Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Bessieres

————— 3rd Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Quenot

————— 9th Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

————— 1st Lancers [1 sq.]

———— Artillery

————— I Horse Battery/5th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

————— III Horse Battery/5th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

——— 2nd Heavy Cavalry Division: GdD Valence

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Reynaud

————— 6th Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdD Dejean

————— 11th Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Lagrange le Lievre

————— 12th Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

————— 5th Lancers [1 sq.]

———— Artillery

————— IV Horse Battery/5th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

————— IV Horse Battery/5th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

—— II Reserve Cavalry Corps 3,500 (Fr, Po, Pr, Wu) Général de division Compte Montbrun; Col. Wathiez (Chief-of-staff)

——— 2nd Light Cavalry Division: GdD Pajol

———— Light Cavalry Brigade: Col. Desirat

————— 11th Chasseurs [3 sq.]

————— 12th Chasseurs [3 sq.]

———— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Burthe

————— 5th Chasseurs [4 sq.]

————— 9th Chasseurs [4 sq.]

———— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Subervie

————— Polish 10th Hussars [3 sq.]

————— Wirtemberg. 3rd Horse Jager [3 sq.]

————— Prussian 1st Converg. Uhlan [4 sq.]

———— Artillery

————— I Horse Battery/4th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

——— 2nd Heavy Cavalry Division: GdD Wathier

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB de Beaumont

————— 5th Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Richter

————— 8th Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Dornes

————— 10th Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

————— 2nd Lancers [1 sq.]

———— Artillery

————— I Horse Battery/2nd Horse Art. Reg. [6]

————— IV Horse Battery/2nd Horse Art. Reg.[6]

——— 4th Heavy Cavalry Division: GdD Defrance

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Chouard

————— 1st Carabineirs [4 sq.]

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB de Lamotte

————— 2nd Carabiniers [4 sq.]

———— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB des Eclaz

————— 1st Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

————— 4th Lancers [1 sq.]

———— Artillery

————— III Horse Battery/1st Horse Art. Reg. [6]

————— IV Horse Battery/1st Horse Art. Reg. [6]

* * *

 **Corps follow behind central force**

— IV Corps 2,000 (It, Fr, Cr, Sp) Général de division Eugène de Beauharnais, Prince Français, Prince of Venice, Viceroy of the Kingdom of Italy; GdB Guilleminot (Chief-of-staff); GdD de Vraincourt (Artillery); GdB Poitevin (Engineers)

—— Italian Royal Guard: GdB Lecchi

——— Italian Guard Infantry Brigade: GdB Lecchi

———— Italian Royal Velites [2 btns.]

———— Italian Guard Conscripts [2 btns.]

———— Italian Guard Infantry [2 btns.]

——— Italian Guard Cavalry Brigade: GdB Triaire

———— Italian Honor Guard [2 sq.]

———— Italian Guard Dragoons [2 sq.]

———— Italian Queen's Dragoons [4 sq.]

——— Italian Artillery: ChdB Clément

———— Italian Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Italian Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Italian Horse Battery [6 guns]

———— attached: Italian Sapper Company

—— Light Cavalry Division: GdD Ornano

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Guyon

———— 9th Chasseurs [3 sq.]

———— 19th Chasseurs [3 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Villata

———— Italian 2nd Chasseurs [4 sq.]

———— Italian 3rd Chasseurs [4 sq.]

—— Light Cavalry Division: GM von Preysing-Moos

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GM von Seydewitz

———— Bavarian 3rd Lighthorse [4 sq.]

———— Bavarian 6th Lighthorse [4 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GM von Preysing-Moos

———— Bavarian 4th Lighthorse [4 sq.]

———— Bavarian 5th Lighthorse [4 sq.]

——— Artillery: Cpt. Wiedemann

———— Bavarian Horse Battery [6 guns]

—— 13th Infantry Division: GdD Delzons

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB de St. Aubin

———— 8th Light [2 btns. 2 light guns]

———— 84th Line [4 btns. 2 light guns]

———— Croat 1st Provisional [2 btns.]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Plauzonne

———— 92nd Line [4 btns. 2 light guns]

———— 106th Line [4 btns. 2 light guns]

——— Artillery: ChdB Demay

———— IX Foot Battery/2nd Foot Art. Reg. [8]

———— II Horse Battery/4th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

———— attached: Sapper Company

—— 14th Infantry Division: GdD Broussier

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB de Sivray

———— 18th Light [2 btns. 2 light guns]

———— 53rd Line [4 btns. 2 light guns]

———— Spanish Joseph Bonaparte Line [2 btns.]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Alméras

———— 9th Line [4 btns. 2 light guns]

———— 35th Line [4 btns. 2 light guns]

——— Artillery: ChdB Hermann

———— VII Foot Battery/2nd Foot Art. Reg. [8]

———— III Horse Battery/4th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

———— attached: Sapper Company

——— Reserve Artillery

———— V Foot Battery/2nd Foot Art. Reg. [8]

———— XII Foot Battery/12th Foot Art. Reg. [8]

———— Italian II Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Italian VII Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— attached: Pontoon Company

— VI Corps 3,500 (Bv) Général de division Marquis Laurent de Gouvion Saint-Cyr

— III Reserve Cavalry Corps 2,400 (Fr, Bv, Sx, Du) Général de division Emmanuel, Marquis de Grouchy; Marquis de Jumilhac (Chief-of-staff)

—— 3rd Light Cavalry Division: GdD Chastel

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Gauthrin

———— 6th Hussars [3 sq.]

———— 8th Chasseurs [4 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Gerard

———— 6th Chasseurs [3 sq.]

———— 25th Chasseur [3 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Dommanget

———— Bavarian Lighthorse [4 sq.]

———— Bavarian Lighthorse [4 sq.]

———— Saxon Lighthorse [4 sq.]

——— Artillery

———— IV Horse Battery/1st Horse Art. Reg. [6]

—— 6th Heavy Cavalry Division: GdD Lahussaye

——— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Thiry

———— 7th Dragoons [3 sq.]

———— 23rd Dragoons [3 sq.]

——— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Seron

———— 28th Dragoons [3 sq.]

———— 30th Dragoons [3 sq.]

——— Artillery

———— IV Horse Battery/6th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

———— V Horse Battery/6th Horse Art. Reg. [6]

* * *

 **Right flank force under Napoleon's brother Général de division Jérôme Bonaparte, French Prince, King of Westphalia**

— V Corps 1,500 (Po) Général de division Josef Antoni, Prince Poniatowski; GdD Fiszer (Chief-of-staff); GdD Pelletier (Artillery)

—— Light Cavalry Division: GdD Kaminski

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Prince Sulkowski

———— Polish 13th Hussars [4 sq.] "Silver Hussars"

———— Polish 5th Chasseurs [4 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Niemojewski

———— Polish 4th Chasseurs [4 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Tyszkewicz

———— Polish 1st Chasseurs [1 sq.]

———— Polish 12th Uhlans [4 sq.]

—— 16th Infantry Division: GdB Krasinski

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Mielzynski

———— Polish 3rd Line [3 btns. 2 light guns]

———— Polish 15th Line [3 btns. 2 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Paszkowski

———— Polish 16th Line [3 btns. 2 light guns]

——— Artillery: GdD Sowinski

———— Polish III Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Polish XII Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Polish Sappers

—— 18th Infantry Division: GdD Kniaziewicz

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Bieganski

———— Polish 2nd Line [3 btns. 2 light guns]

———— Polish 8th Line [3 btns. 2 light guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Potocki

———— Polish 12th Line [3 btns. 2 light guns]

——— Artillery

———— Polish IV Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Polish V Foot Battery [6 guns]

———— Polish Sappers

——— Reserve Artillery: Col. Gorski

———— Polish II Horse Battery

———— Polish XIV Foot Battery

———— Polish Sapper Company

———— Polish Sapper Company

———— Polish Pontoon Company

— VIII Corps 4,800 (We) Général de division Jérôme Bonaparte, French Prince, King of Westphalia and Jean-Andoche Junot Duc d'Abrantès; Col. Revest (Chief-of-staff); GdD Allix de Vaux (Artillery)

—— Light Cavalry Division: GdB von Hammerstein

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB von Hammerstein

———— Westphalian 1st Hussars [4 sq.]

———— Westphalian 2nd Hussars [4 sq.]

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Wolf

———— Westphalian Guard Chevauxlegere [4]

—— 23rd Infantry Division: GdD Tharreau

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Damas

———— Westphalian III Light Btn. [1 btn.]

———— Westphal. 2nd Line [2 btns. 2 guns]

———— Westphal. 6th Line [2 btns. 2 guns]

——— Infantry Brigade: GM von Borstel

———— Westphalian II Light Btn. [1 btn.]

———— Westphal. 3rd Line [2 btns. 2 guns]

———— Westphal. 7th Line [3 btns. 2 guns]

——— Artillery: Cpt. Frede

———— Westphalian I Foot Battery [8 guns]

—— 24th Infantry Division: GdD von Ochs

——— Infantry Brigade: GdB Legras

———— Westphal. Guard Grenadiers [1 btn.]

———— Westphal. Guard Carabiniers [1 btn.]

———— Westphal. Guard Chasseurs [1 btn.]

———— Westphalian I Light Btn. [1 btn.]

——— Artillery: Cpt. Lamaitre

———— Westphalian II Foot Battery [8 guns]

Reserve Artillery

———— Westphalian Guard Horse Battery [6]

———— Westphalian Sapper Company

— IV Reserve Cavalry Corps 2,400 (Po, Sx, We) Général de division Marie Victor de Fay, marquis de Latour-Maubourg; GdB Mathieu (Chief-of-staff)

—— 4th Light Cavalry Division: GdD Rozniecki

——— Light Cavalry Brigade: GdB Turno

———— Polish 3rd Uhlans [3 sq.]

———— Polish 11th Uhlans [3 sq.]

————Polish 16th Uhlans [3 sq.]

———Artillery

———— Polish III Horse Battery [6 guns]

———— Polish IV Horse Battery [6 guns]

—— 7th Heavy Cavalry Division: GdD Lorge

——— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GM von Thielemann

———— Polish 14th Cuirassiers [2 sq.]

———— Saxon Garde du Corps [4 sq.]

———— Saxon Zastrov Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

——— Heavy Cavalry Brigade: GdB Lepel

———— Westphalian 1st Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

———— Westphalian 2nd Cuirassiers [4 sq.]

——— Artillery

———— Saxon II Horse Battery [6 guns]

———— Westphalian II Horse Battery [6 guns]

* * *

 **Southern Flank**

— VII Corps 3,700 (Sx) Général de division Jean-Louis-Ebénézer Reynier

— Austrian Corps 34,000 (Au) Feldmarschall Karl Philipp, Prince of Schwarzenberg, Herzog von Krumau

* * *

 **Reserve in Poland and Prussia (several units marched to Russia in late stage of campaign 1812) attached to newly formed Left Flank**

— XI Corps 5,000 (Fr, Du, Ge, Ne) Maréchal Pierre Augereau, Duc de Castiglione

* * *

 **Reserve in Germany (marched to Russia in late summer 1812) and attached to Left Flank**

— IX Corps 13,500 (Fr, Po, Ba, Bg, He, Sx) Maréchal Claude Victor-Perrin, known as Victor, Duc de Bellune

* * *

 **Represented nationalities**

 **—**

— Troops from the French Empire

—— Dutch from annexed Kingdom of Holland (Du)

—— Flemish and Walloon from annexed Belgium territories

—— Germans from annexed North Germany and left bank of the Rhine River (Ge)

—— Italians from annexed Piedmont, Liguria, Tuscany, Parma and Rome (It)

— Poles (Po)

—— Polish from Duchy of Warsaw

—— Polish National Guard, depot companies and garrisons in defence of Duchy of Warsaw

—— Polish in French service (Vistula Legion, 8th Chevauleger-Lancer, 1st and 3rd Guard Chevauleger-Lancer)

—— Newly formed regiments during campaign in Lithuania

— Germans from Rhine Confederation

—— Bavarians (Bv)

—— Saxons (Sx)

—— Westphalians (We)

—— Württemberg (Wu)

—— Baden (Ba)

—— Berg (Bg)

—— Hesse (He)

—— other members of Rhine Confederation

— Italians from Napoleonic Kingdom of Italy (It)

— Neapolitans, majority never went to Russia, part garrisoned in Danzig, part were sent back to Naples (Ne)

— Swiss (Sw)

— Spanish (Sp)

— Croats (Cr)

— Portuguese (Pt)

— Illyrian, Dalmatian and Mediterranean minorities (Il)

— Prussians. There servised Prussian German, but also some Polish from Silesia, West and East Prussia (Pr)

— Austrian Corps under Schwarzenberg. (Au) This corps consisted of several nationalities:

—— Polish and Ruthenian-Ukrainian from Galicia

—— Bohemians and Moravians Czechs

—— Croats

—— German Austrians

—— Hungarians, Slovaks, Serbs, Romanians, Ruthenian-Ukrainian


	6. Chapter V

**AN: I do not own anything. Enjoy the story.**

* * *

 **Chapter V** **— An Englishman in Napoleon's Court**

 _"If there's anything I despise, it's ingratitude..."_

 _— Napoleon of House Bonaparte, 300 AC_

* * *

 **Will**

The thin-framed Black Brother of the Night's Watch was himself tired as the Grand Army's march was dragged to it's third day. Or was it... it's fourth? Suppose that it were five, then the young man had truly gone too far with this whole insanity business. Will had missed the warmer confines of his prison-like tent, and the calm ambience that went with it. The soft thumps on the ground as men's boots collided with the snowy surface. Boiling water, simmering pots, and the sweet aroma of what he lonely assumed as wine and liquor. Though, not the one he had been associated it since his botched poaching career, but win nonetheless. No man from the Gift to Dorne would be so dense as not to notice the smell of good ale, or what have you.

A few days back had been a most hectic affair. Meetings, or 'interrogation sessions', with one Marshal _Davoust_ became more and more frequent, as did the quality of his supposed imprisonment. The cold, calculating man had actually brought him all matters of 'gifts' from his lands of ' _Europe_ ' and ' _France_ '. The names sounded strange, and was quite exotic for his taste. He rolled it with his tongue as couple of times and Will realized it left a nasty taste in his mouth. Either it was the culture shock he had been experiencing, or him merely going mad. He certainly did not forget those taunting, icy blue eyes, and that monstrous curve of a smile that had come upon that demonic face. Dream after dream, he was there, waiting to pounce on him like an undead direwolf.

Back to the topic at hand: _Louis-Nicolas Davoust_ , or something. That's how, at least, what the man had insisted being called upon when the commander talked to him the Common tongue. Then again, the latter insisted that they simply settle it with a different name: _English_. Again, sounds foreign. Irritating too. If not, as terrible as that _Europe_ and _France_ of his. The foreigner didn't quite clarify it to him. Marshal _Davoust_ , as the ' _Frenchman_ ' had spelled out to him in another session, was a stubborn, difficult to speak to, vicious, dull, sour, and serious individual who reminded him of a certain person who held high contempt for anything disorderly. Nay, Davoust could have very well bested Stannis Baratheon in regards to their gloomy facades. The Master of Ships himself, known far and wide in the Realm as the most cunning military commander and warrior to ever have lived, right behind legendary figures such as Aegon the Conqueror. Will had imagined a staring contest between Marshal Davoust and Lord Baratheon of Dragonstone. It would be the battle of the century.

Then again, the Brother in Black was not this childish to envisage such mummer's farce. Certainly unbecoming of the Ranger. And now, with all the paranoia about the White Walkers, their supposedly horse-sized ice spiders, and undead wight hordes, Will had not mustered the strength to be gleeful or happy about any of this. It was wrong. So misaligned with the current happenstance. Yet, he hears these foreigners laugh, sing, and dance to their tunes and comedic eccentricities. Even in the cold, the men he had called his captors, soldiers of an 'empire' so far away from their reach, morale was as high as ever. Though, food and supplies we're indeed, an entirely different matter.

Will was banished from the deepest roots of his mind as the very man in question has arrived to talk to him, slowly emerging from the corner of his eye. The Marshal had wanted the boy beside him, but as a guest, not a prisoner. The commander found his uses on Will, and so did, the aide-de-camp of the Emperor himself.

Thankfully, Will was provided a horse. The saddle was much more comfortable than his recent experience with mounts and steads. The stallion he was sat upon was disciplined, calm, and generally neutral. Despite his discomfort, having been surrounded by men who despised him and soldiers who'd pay to see him gutted and impaled upon a pike, the presence of Davoust was a reassuring factor. He was still, to be frank, silent as ever. Blue eyes had once again crossed the echelons of his mind.

"How are you doing," the Marshal greeted, his voice monotone, but as cold as steel, "the men not giving you any trouble?"

"N-no, s-sir. I m-mean, milord," he answered weakly, "they s-seemed to be more occupied with t-the c-cold." His head faced down once again. Davoust narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Will's facial movements.

"Head up. Have I not told you to drop the _milord_ title? You're making me look like Wellington." the man answered. "I am no position to be a noble. Marshal or Monsieur would be enough."

"As you w-wish, Lord Marshal."

Davoust merely sighed. Even in the freezing weather, old habits die hard. The cold must have frozen the boy's skull.

"The Emperor sees his uses of you. From then on, you will remain under my tutelage. You do know of these lands, do you not?" the Marshal said in askance.

"I d-do." Will pointed towards west. "The map you showed me, Lord Marshal, I know of t-these parts. Full of 'em Wildling tribes. The Thenns in the Valley."

"The Thenns?" the Marshal furrowed his eyebrow a bit, clearly conscious of his curiousness. "Please do elaborate."

"Cannibals, Lord Marshal. They s-scar their skin and shave their scalps. They hunt from the Thenn Valley, a paradise it is, as your s-scouts hold true. They eat the flesh of their enemies, us crows."

"Hmm." the commander hummed. Of course, Will had been forced to reveal the Night's Watch, long ago. He had lied though. Under the guise of a Wildling ambush, Will explained that the trio, along with Gared and Ser Waymar, were attacked by the savages during a ranging. He had escaped, albeit barely, while his comrades had fallen to the barbarians. The commanding officer seemed to have bought it off, but pushed no further about his experience.

"It isn't my business what happened to you before we _captured_ you," the word was stressed as to indicate his clear lack of bondage, "but I do know this: you shall swear your loyalty to the Emperor. He has requested your presence. A reward shall come when the time comes. But, do this, and you will hold a place amongst our ranks."

"Do you mean for me to desert the Watch? My Brothers?" the boy asked.

"No, I mean you to avenge your fallen friends. These _Wildlings_ you speak of. Have they not caused enough damage to your Realm? Innocent women and children, men of the household killed with their arms, farms burned, villages ravaged. Is it not what you want? Peace and tranquility?"

Will contemplated at that. For all he knew, he already lost faith in the Night's Watch. They wouldn't be able to defeat the Others, not with their numbers. But Davoust, his Emperor, and this army, could stand a chance. With their wooden sticks of death, the so-called _muskets_ and their supposedly loud and thunderous _cannons_ , large hallow cylinders of metal that would bring devastation to any army from Wall to Sunspear, and to the east towards Essos and Slaver's Bay. Perhaps even in the Shadow Lands. Will was unsure of these weapons at first. He had, and stupidly, assumed they were mummer's farce. But, various demonstrations during their near-week long journey into the Thenn, or " _Elysian_ " Valley, had justified their exaggerated and destructive power. He had seen it in action after all.

There were desertions now, as supplies went as low as they could, and rations revolved bread and fruits that were barely sized a man's thumb. The _vivandieres_ and _cantinieres_ , maidens who had accompanied the army and suited their healing and medicinal needs, could not spare but a small drop of wine, ale, or even a crumb of barley. Dozens had suffered the fate of a deserter: executed by firing squad. Men, once loyal to the Emperor, were mercilessly shot by roaring bullets, their honor and sacrifices completely discarded as they went off with a bang. The last thing they would hear were those muskets. Apart from that, most died instantly from the trauma and the pain.

Deaths weren't secluded only to deserters. Many died from hunger, weakness, and fatigue. Hundreds, at most, as attrition rates shot through the roof. Some died, merely dropping dead as soon as they took that last breath, that last step into the blistering wilderness. Others, to his pity, couldn't take it anymore. They sat on the ground, and slowly, lay on the soft ground. They closed their eyes to fall asleep, embracing the prospect of death and isolation. True to be told, they were alone in this world. Mounds of blue and the brown, white, or black of horse corpses lay on the bed of Death.

From all the deaths that had occurred, the Grand Army still stood strong.

Will had decided that he would do good to be a part of this Grand Army. He wanted revenge against the White Walkers. Perhaps, driven by his depressive form and inner madness. To be honest, he faired better. Just weeks ago, he was yelling in the forest. Now, he was as calm as a tame dragon. It may have had something to do with the people around him. It unnerved him that he was hated here, and yet, he was relieved that people were here, and came to acknowledge his existence.

"I'll do it, Lord Marsha." He said, a great determination to avenge the deaths of his Brothers overcoming his being. This renewed sense of purpose was instantaneous. If he is to survive, he might as well make do with what he as.

"I wish to be a marksman and soldier of the Grand Army. I may be branded a deserter by my comrades, but I will not stand idly by as more of by Brothers will die by _their_ hands." He wasn't specific about who _they_ are, but he knew the Marshal would assume regardless.

And from that point, Will could almost see the normally stern and cold commander twitch his lips upwards. The boy could have sworn he almost saw a smile curl upon the older man's mouth.

* * *

 **Napoleon**

Seconds became minutes. Minutes became hours. The sun had once again left the azure sky to void color, leaving nothing but darkened clouds that loomed gloomily over the barren landscape. The Grand Army had halted to rest once again, after hours of marching without stop or break. The camp was set up quickly, as forecast has yet again signified a storm of some significant strength. The sprawling encampment, lit with what little lamps glowed. Makeshift torches, braziers, and fireplaces glimmered in contrast to the abyss that had encompassed the Lands of Always Winter.

Napoleon and his Marshals were gathered in particularly roomy tent, one that stood above others, and were surrounded by patrolling guards. Though, they felt numb with the cold. The camp was asleep, tranquil in their condition, but was suffering all the same. Napoleon himself was not too pleased with the results of the march. Hands covering his face, he murmuring to himself as he leaned on the table to support his sullen and murky mannerisms with his heavily coated elbows. The clothes were thick, and not very easy to move about.

The Marshals themselves, apart from the other generals who tended to their duties as camp prefects, were speaking to their Emperor with the recent reports. More than that, what had really kept Napoleon awake was the Army's supply of food and drink. Streams were scarce as they went further North. No news from the _Eclaireurs_ , as they are yet to return from their regular round of patrols around the encampment. He hopped Colonel Testot-Ferry would have word about the Elysian Valley soon.

Marshal Berthier, the chief-of-staff, was the first to break the overbearing silence of their council.

"Sire, at least a dozen or so men had attempted to desert their posts from along the Northern, Central, and Southern Flanks. They had been arrested for treason and... dealt with, accordingly. I understand that treason is almost punishable by death, Your Majesty, but should we really resort to such... extremities?" The man asked. He got no answer however, as Napoleon started to merely remove his head from his palms. He looked blankly, his eyes lacking emotion. Berthier knew this to be his signal to back off, and he did so. "Forgive, Sire, I have pushed my point too far."

Napoleon continued to look. Before anything could be said, Ney intervened, by beginning his attrition reports.

"Seventy-six men, Sire, has perished along the march, adding up to our already swelling number of casualties from the invasion. Since our march, deaths has reached nine-hundred and three, not accounting our own losses with the cavalry. Another hundred stallions had died. The men decided to harvest the meat. Our foraging volunteers are hunting as much game as they could. Deer, wolf, white hares, and mountain cats. Add that to our remaining stocks and we still might prevail." The Marshal continued. "It could feed us for now, until we reach the Valley, but men will start to look for wine and bread and fruits. They can't live on meat and boiled snow forever, Sire." _Boiled snow. I'm amazed out how our engineers are thinking outside the box._

Napoleon nodded. Rotting food wasn't a problem, especially meat. But then again, some of the meat were diseased. The cold preserved the meat, but it also preserved whatever strains of bacteria and sickness remained latche unto it. It would most certain with the wild animals that they had hunted. No way to dry them. No way to cleanse them of their filth. It would have to do, for now.

It was at this time, Joachim Murat came to share his own report. "Sixteen of our _pieces_ had to be dropped, as the horses had died off, and the weight was too heavy to burden ourselves with. The crew of the First and Second Artillery Companies had been reintegrated to the rear and reserve force. I fear we won't be using our twenty four pounders for a while, brother, not until we retrieve them." _Of course I'd lose my cannons, with the damned weather._ "We have also lost some of our munitions. A few rounds and canister shots, as well as powder. Though, enough to last us at least two days in a battle, if you plan to bombard them forty eight hours a time."

"It's understandable," Napoleon begun, his voice rough and glum, "it looks to be that our Army isn't facing as much attrition as we did in Russia." Jérôme caught the relief in his voice, but it was strained. "How long until the Valley comes to our sights?"

"Not too long now." This time, the voice came from Marshal Davoust. "Our guest had been useful. The Valley is close to a day's ride away. A day's _ride_ , that is, Your Majesty. The Army would need to ponder longer. The _Eclaireurs_ should have reached it by now. If their delay is of any importance, then they may have encountered the native indigenous population."

"I thought that this 'Will' would be betraying his cause if he shared this information with us? Is it not their ways? To 'remain parted from the quarrels of the _Realm_ '? What of his brothers?" Jérôme interjected. "Do oaths not mean anything to him?"

"Technically, we are not part of the Seven Kingdoms, my Prince. He finds vengeance a more sound alternative than to wander this wasteland in hopes of finding another of his cult of the damned." Davoust looked at the Prince. "We are but hundreds of miles from their center of olesrions, at the Wall."

"And you trust this Englishman?" Marshal Macdonald snorted, and chuckled. "I'd rather listen to a rock than listen to those skirt-wearing fiends and savages."

"First of all, Jacques, those are Scotsmen. Second of all, we don't know where we are or how we got here. It would be best that we take advantage of our most available resources at the time being, and best of all, that very Englishman you are talking about. He rests, for now, but we need his knowledge of these lands. The map, as far as I know, is not enough." Davoust replied, which made the latter grumble in irritation. Napoleon made the move to stand and strutted around the table, hands firmly place behind his back.

"It would be of great use to us, my dear Marshals, that we use him to our full advantage. He will swear his fealty to me, and will fight, toil, sweat, cry, and bleed for our cause, the French cause. The Grand Army shall prevail, and that is what our goal is. After we have established our supply lines, we can move eastward, to the coasts, and work our way towards the south. This will ensure not only our survival, but our victory." Napoleon paused. "We need all the men we could get. Our soldiers are suffering, yet, they still stand strong. Traitors merely run because they fear that there will be no glory for them here. I reject that, with all the powers vested in me by God above, and I shall lead France to triumph once again. These next few days will determine our future."

The Marshals nodded in agreement, albeit, hesitantly. They would follow Napoleon thick and through, but not in the face of defeat. They were anxious. They didn't no whether the next actions of their Emperor would bring either victory or ruin to themselves. Right now, _he_ needed their support. For the good of the Empire.

"I am still with you, my Emperor." Marshal Berthier said.

"And I, Sire. Long live the Republic." Ney followed. Soon, Oudinot, Macdonald and the other elite officers had declared the persistence of their allegiance.

"I am with you, brother." Jérôme finally finished.

"So am I." Murat chimed in, the ever charming individual that he is. _The Dandy King knows his ways..._

"Good." Napoleon retook his seat in the upfront of the wooden, where many scraps of parchment, scrolls, books, and ink pots and quills were strewn about. There glasses too, half full of wine or water. Others were considerably empty. The men looked at him now, ready for their next move. _They seem so eager, yet so nervous. That will have to be solved._

"This council is to be adjourned for now. Get your rest, Marshals. We ride hard tomorrow. We have much to do, but so little time. We do not know if the weather will get calmer or harsher. The Army can only anticipate and tolerate so. We need to hold together. No amount of desertion or betrayal will resolve our situation." In succession, the Marshals and generals grumbled or mumbled their agreements. Soon after that, they all stood to leave.

The wood scraping the muddy ground started to resound the entire tent, as men shifted to move about. Their boots making contact with the frosted, wet ground made squeaks and gurgles. The last of them departed, and Napoleon was yet again left alone to his own dealings.

* * *

 **Claude**

The First _Eclaireurs_ , the valiant regiment of forty and five able-bodied cavalrymen were currently advancing across the white fields, black forests, and rough natural geography of the Lands of Beyond the Wall. Much have been told to them, courtesy of Marshal Davoust's efforts and sessions with their English friend back at the main body of the Grand Army, who, much to their chagrin were still days away from their position. They themselves were finally coming to the end of their journey, as their surroundings became much more familiar to the men. Claude Testot-Ferry was bearing a hastily put together copy of the map Charles Minard had gracefully drafted, provided, and shared with the highest elites of the French and foreign forces, and then finally, the _Eclaireurs_ themselves.

But even the First Scouts were not without their fair share of hardships over their past week of travel. Sure enough, their food has also dwindled to nothing more than a few scraps of bread, thin slices of horse flesh, and boiled snow, which was fortunately and humorously abundant in these parts. The men now missed the occasional soup, stew, and wine of the homeland. They knew that once they had reached the promised land, the provisions they had once took for granted were going to return. They would once again be comfortable, regardless of what world they lived in. It had been a long time since they knew the truth, by to their knowledge, the rest of the Grand Army was still left in the dark. That would have to change soon. Otherwise, chaos would ensue in the coming months.

They only hoped there was more time.

Several minutes later, Claude had packed the map once more in his leather and resumed their race towards the Valley. The Colonel could already feel the fresh scent of tress from afar, the calm noises emanating from streams and small rivers, the chirping of birds, roars and howls of wolves, the galloping of herding does and stags alike. The ideal hunting ground. As settled before, the French rejoiced and enjoyed hunting, ever since the days of the ancient Roman Empire. The Gauls thrived from the lush forestry present in the French countryside. The Grand Army would surely thrive as well, without fault. It won't be long until the men would back on their feet, singing the glories of their Emperor, God, and Republic.

* * *

 **Mance**

The wind, for some reason, was calm today. This, Mance Rayder could attest to. There was snow, yes, but only little trinkets of it. Small dots, floating and falling effortlessly as the weak breeze from the north flowed into the fields, trees, and valleys. They had existed the Valley only yesterday, after some delay with his entourage. There were sixty Wildlings in their group: Mance himself, Tormund Giantsbane, eight of his own, and another fifty that was led by Loboda, one of Styr's most trusted lieutenants. The alliance was solid, as of now. If the Magnar of the Thenns trusted him, then the Thenns would surely trust him. However, he doubted his position now. Mance and his group departed with haste, right before the Magnar had declared for him in all but name. He didn't quite follow the King-Beyong-the-Wall, but the god-chieftain was certainly not the stupid type to turn down a good alliance. An alliance that promised the Wildlings their _rightful_ place south of the Wall. Where they could rape, pillage, and plunder however they liked. It would certainly be a problem. But, that was years from now. Time was of the essence, but it would take more of his time on this world to truly unify the Free Folk. And surely, he would successfully lead them.

Mance and Tormund were marching in the forefront of their little band of 'adventurers'. After all, they didn't know _where_ to go or _what_ to do. In all honesty, he went with this plan blinded. The only clues he had were blue coats, mounts, and and small ball that happened to cleave a Thenn's head clean off. As far as he knew, _none_ of the Free Folk ever did that. Not in his life, or the in the entire history of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. There were wargs, yes. Skinchangers, parting from their bodies to mend and control the flesh of other creatures of the forest. That was the only magic he had come to came close by, not including his not-too-recent experiences with the necromancing capabilities of the Others. But _this_. He didn't know. How could a _small, metal ball_ be such a danger to his efforts? He realized it not too far into their journey: these men, or whatever they are, could kill instantly. Swords or not, and if this was sorcery, they could surely kill anyone they wanted—no, massacre them. If, by then, the Free Folk continued to antagonize them, like what that hunting party happened to do, his people would surely face an enemy comparable that to the Others.

If these were, indeed, men, then he could reason. Excuse it as a misunderstanding. As far as he knew, these men in blue didn't suffer a casualty. But the Thenn did. The Thenn had a better stance to justify a war against these men in blue. The Thenn weren't so forgiving when another harms their on. They were the most civilized amongst the Free Folk, and the most advanced at that, but not the most merciful of people. He had to deal with this immediately, lest more deaths come. More deaths mean more bodies for the Others to harvest and add to their ever growing army of half dead abominations. He had seen it. Mammoths that could tower over farmhouses, giants that were even larger. Men, who had lost their arms, legs, and the majority of their humanity, walk with weapons. They were hallow, rotting, and scorched. The black bones and decayed flesh were haunting. And then there were the Others: with the great, giant frost spiders that sized as large as hounds up to even the biggest and grandest of destriers. Pale men that had icy growths all over themselves, sporting weapons of winter, and stood above all men. They were great creatures. They did great things. Terrible, but great things.

That was nearly eight thousand years ago. Now, they come to have their revenge. A second Long Night. A Night that will destroy the world.

His short reverie was interrupted by Tormund's hand grasping his shoulders, shaking him a little. Mance blinked and looked at the ginger. "What is it?" he asked.

The man pointed at the far distance, his rags stretching and following the movements of his arm. A pale finger protruded towards a nearby clearing, emerging from the forestry. _Black woods, dead woods._ "Look." the Giantsbane finally said.

It took a long time to see what Tormund had pointed at. Mance was middle aged. His eyes were weary, but he still stood strong. Narrowing his lids to get a clearer image, he immediately realized what was emerging out of the tall spirals jutting out of the white snow. There was dust and snow slowly clambering their way upwards, then suddenly, out from the barely dead trees, came horses. There were _men_ , riding great beasts. Stallions that were larger than he had ever seen. Comparing it to the ones from the stables of Castle Black, these were much more muscled and trained. These were _warhorses_ , only known in the North and below it. There no destriers in the Lands beyond the Wall, and destriers men an entire cavalry host. Whatever these men are, they brought an _army_ with them. The though made Mance wince inside. There was an _army_ of them. They had that sorcery of their's, but he never anticipated an _army_ to appear out of nowhere. His predicament had just become more delicate. _They would surely destroy the Thenns_ , he thought. _They would destroy everyone._

"Mance..." Tormund said. "Those don't look like Free Folk to me..."

"I know... I know..." he followed, his voice lacking expression. He heard footsteps from behind him, it was the Thenns. Loboda, to be exact.

"Mance."

"Loboda."

"The horses. _Men._ They head towards the Valley." Loboda said, observing as the dust rose behind the galloping mounts and their riders, though very far away. He looked back at the King-Beyond-the-Wall. "Some of them have blue greatcoats. Others? Mixes of green as the grass of the south and others lined with crimson, blood crimson. Certainly not Free Folk. They don't look like kneelers either. _They don't have armour_ , except for their helmets of theirs. Looks metal enough."

The Thenn commander's words became truth as Mance himself inspected the crowd, before they could leave their sights. They wore uniforms that were strange to him. They lacked armour, yet bore blades to their sides. Slight curved ones—good for swinging and slashing. They also had these gold-colored helmets, with spotted bases and long manes that extended from the top, like those of their own horses. The mounts themselves bore no armor, unlike the destriers of the south. Only saddles and packs. It made no sense. _Who were these people?!_

"One of my men recognize their garments. He was in the scout party from before. These are the ones. We found our... uhm, _friends_." Loboda commented. There came no response from Mance, only silently glaring at the cavalry group before him. "He says he wants blood, for his fallen comrade. The others agree with him. We could ambush the-"

" _No!_ Just, _no._ " Mance immediately snapped. "There will be no ambush. We will not attack them. We will present ourselves properly, until we meet their main host."

"Their _main_ host?" Loboda asked, an amused tone in his voice. He chuckled. "No _main_ host here, old man. All I see are cravens riding on their little ponies. They aren't kneelers, but they did kill a Thenn."

"Your _scouts_ threatened one of them." Mance returned. Loboda scowled, but backed away as soon as Mance's men and Tormund begun to surround him.

"What would you do then, huh? Tell me, _Giantsbabe?"_ Loboda taunted the ginger, grinning manically. "We outnumber you."

"I'll gut you, and feed you your entrails." Giantsbane snarled, clearly fuming with rage. "Touch Mance, I'll cut of your balls and feed 'em to your Magnar."

" _You_ would dare-"

"Enough of this!" Mance said. "You squabble like children. We bear no ill will against each other! Stand down Tormund, I'll handle him."

Tormund was still scowling, but eventually backed down, dropping his arm to his sides along with his axe. Mance strutted forward, facing Loboda.

"Blood will not be spilled today. Nor any other day, especially when we meet their _main_ host."

"How are you so sure, King Crow? The Magnar only trusted you because he thought you would bring him justice, for the undeniable _murder_ of his men." Loboda scoffed, spitting into the ground. "Yet here you are, wanting to treat with these _foreigners_. And their 'main host'. How are you so sure?"

"Because I've seen warhorses. You have never. You were never south of the Wall. Aye, I'm sure. I'm sure." Mance retorted, crossing his arms, and made no effort breaking his stare off with the Thenn commander.

Loboda narrowed his eyes, then closed them. He chuckled a little and smirked. "I like you King Crow. You have a strong mind, but are you strong in a real fight? Aye, we will follow you. The Magnar ain't here, so why not?" The other Thenns finally losed their tense positions. So did Tormund and the other Free Folk. 'Mance's kingsguard', Rattleshirt, the Lord of Bones, once said. However, Mance remained anxious, vigilant even. There was still a doubt in the Thenn's voice. That small detail of disloyalty, dishonesty, and doubt. This was an issue he couldn't tolerate. As long as Loboda opposes him, so will the Thenns. So will their desire for spilt blood remain.

"We continue the march. Opposite their direction. We won't follow them. We head to their main host, and hopefully, treat with whoever is leading them. These are probably only the scouts. We watch out for others, as there are bound to be more of them. If we can, we apparoch them peacefully. No blood is to spilt." Rayder said in finality. That made other Thenns grumble, but Loboda remains stoic in his stance. He simply nodded. Mance could see the treachery in his eyes. He would see Mance as siding with _them_. He clearly didn't get the bigger picture. Tormund however, nodded too, and supportively, along with his other companions.

It would be a long week before things get done.

The band resumed their walk, while the figures at the corner of their eyes, with great beasts under them as steeds, disappeared into the horizon. The landscape had swallowed them once again.

* * *

 **Will**

It was upon them. The Thenn Valley. The famed paradise in a sea of death, snow, and cold. They were so close, yet so hungry at the same time. The jagged edges of the Frostfangs, their peaks stretching from the blanketed horizon, was now in full view of the French Grand Army. Will could see the greenery, the tall evergreen forest filled with life, and the game that roamed, ready to be hunted nourishment. Fruits that were prepared to be plucked from their branches, and with every bite, juice spilt out. He would savor the flavor. It was probably the first time he would have eaten real food. The rations in Castle Black were as bland and bleak as they looked like.

Apart from his thoughts, Will had made progress with his 'marksman' skills. He was just starting, and there is much to learn. Much, much more. Marshal Davoust has implicated that the very moment he entered the Grand Army as a recruit. _Auxiliary_ , he said. He was on reserve. A _spare_. It didn't bother him. After all, he only had just begun.

Davoust assigned him to his own division—a unit of troops that composed of five thousand other soldiers. Alongside that, he was given the rank of _Soldat_ , or what Davoust clarified as _Private_ in the 'English equivalent'. It was the lowest among ranks. Ranks were nonexistent in the Seven Kingdoms. There only the men-at-arms, levies, knights, and then the generals, which were either lords paramount, noble lords, or lesser lords. The term could also apply to knights with enough recognition and skill to be given the authority by their liege. The levies remained the bulk of armies. _They never moved up._

What surprised Will was that the Grand Army was designed to allow men to move up, through skill, ability, and capability. The Emperor, _Napoleon_ , had wanted the Army to be a meritocracy, where individuals, no matter how humble of birth, could rise rapidly towards the highest of commands, as did he. Davoust was extremely vague on the origins of the Emperor of the French, but it is widely known that Napoleon lived comfortably before, in some place called the _Kingdom of Corsica_ , an island off the coast of what was known as the landmass of _Italy_. Given the right opportunities to prove themselves, capable men could rise to the top within a few years, whereas in other armies it usually required decades if at all. It was said that even the lowliest private carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack.

It almost reminded him of the Night's Watch. _Even bastards, rapers, traitors, and criminals could be something_. A man by the name of Allister Thorne was someone to prove that.

The _Marshal of the Empire_ was never a rank in the first place, courtesy of Davoust. It was a personal title, granted to distinguished Divisional generals and commanders in the Army that had been recognized for their efforts, along with higher pay and privileges. The highest permanent rank was the _Général de division_ , or _Major General_ in the English equivalent. All these insignias, positions, appointments, and the notion of promotions were confusing to him. A true culture shock. The Grand Army was explicitly specific on it's organization. It was what held the entire force together, from the Southern to the Northern Flanks.

He himself was placed under the command of General Jean Dominique Compans, in the _5e Corps Battalion_ , the _Fifth Battalion,_ another branch of 1,000 soldiers that served Davoust's _I Infantry Corps_. As explained to him, a regiment, in the case of the Marshal's command, usually contained at least three battalions, each comprising of a grenadier company, four fusilier companies, and one volitguer company. Another battalion was included, the _depot battalion_ , which were composed of four fusilier companies. Each company contained a hundred men. The grenadiers were the elites, the best of the regiment, and were specialized in throwing ' _grenades_ ', or small circular pots that contained ' _black powder_ '—the very same substance used to fuel the thunderous destruction of muskets. The fusiliers, on the other hand, were the regulars. They utilized the muskets themselves, and were the majority of what made up line infantry. They were the marksmen. Their weapon and companion, the smoothbore rifle. Voltigeurs were primarily the scouts and skirmishers. They took over specialized tasks, operated in loose formations, and screened for enemy forces. They were the skilled sharpshooters of the battalion, specifically trained in marksmanship, using cover and taking initiative.

The voltigeur company was what he _aimed_ to be in. He laughed at his own jape, only briefly. His madness was still there, all thanks to that Other. The White Walker. He swore to Gared and Ser Royce that he would see that Walker riddled in bullet holes, face in a confused and painful expression, unable to comprehend what had just come upon him. He would have made his vengeance, all the while, earning the respect of these foreigners.

But right now, he was in no position. He had to learn. As Davoust had promised in return for his loyalty to the Emperor, he was to be placed with the voltigeurs. Will proved to be a valuable source of material for the movements of the Grand Army in these parts. So, he was under the Marshal's personal protection. So did the Emperor promise immunity. But, that didn't stop the other voltigeurs—seasoned soldiers and hardened men—from looking at him with scowls he swore that could have killed people half a mile away. They were so sour, in fact, that it was hard to look back at them. That hate. He didn't mind it, but it was so much hate that couldn't quite understand it himself. Whatever these Englishmen did to the French, it wasn't pretty. There was clearly a rivalry between these two nations.

Will's training officially commenced a while back. Days ago, and the day after he had that _talk_ with Marshal Davoust and ' _declared_ ' for the Emperor. He had no choice either. The musket, of course, was his forced priority. Then there was drilling to train discipline, and customs and courtesies, as well as uniforms. He was surprised Davoust was this trusting of him in the first place. He wasn't at the same time. Will had no means to oppose them, and he had no reason to. He had been kept alive by these strangers, while the Watch will surely brand him a deserter just because he lost sight of Ser Royce. They wouldn't believe him anyways. It wasn't like he had a place to call home anymore. Eastwatch or Shadow Tower? Maybe. But they'll send him straight back to the Lord Commander regardless. He'll want answers. Jeor Mormons was one of the more reasonable folks in the Night's Watch, but he'll doubt Will. He can't make that risk, to return empty handed with no answers.

Will, like all other soldiers in the battalion, was provided a standard-issue ' _Charleville'_ musket and it's _bayonet_ , or the sharp end of the rifle. According to Davoust, it was the most widely used musket in the land of Europe during thei time, if not, the best musket in the whole world. The bayonet would be removed or put back on at will, in which, the musket itself can be used as a melee weapon. Not exactly the most formidable and effective compared to the usual greatsword, longsword, pike, spear, or bastard sword, but it could save you in close combat should you deplete yourself of ammo and powder. Relatively, the officers were the only men at the field that wielded a sabre—blade's that were slightly curved inwards. Relarive to the swords of the south, these sabres were swifter and good for slashing and thrusting. It was a deathly multi-tool, but, it was nothing in contrast to the common musket, carbine, or flintlock pistol.

Loading an empty musket incorporated several steps into the process, which was heavily emphasized by the four sergeants. Hardened men they were, bitter as ever, and the quadrumvirate were well versed in the discplining his new comrades, including himself of course. One sergeant, by the name of Baptiste Antoine, took him as a favorite. Will had to remember each step, and do it as fast as possible with only a single command. Initially, there were dozens that were expected of him to follow, but the other commands— _make ready_ , _present_ , and _fire—_ with the exception of _prime and load_ , were the only other commands he needed to here and do their respective movements. There were many more the decided not to linger too long about. It was variably too much. Telling himself would only cram his mind. At the sound of " _p_ _remier et charger_ ", which Davoust had happily translated for him, Will had to immediately follow the given instruction. The new recruit opened his priming pan or bassinet, plucked a cartridge from his _giberne,_ bit off the tip of the end containing the powder charge, primed his musket by squeezing some powder into the pan, closed it, emptied the rest of the powder down his musket barrel, rammed the rest of the cartridge down on top of it using his iron ramrod (the cartridge paper served as wadding to keep powder and ball in place). He then cocked his musket and was ready to shoot. Will had been given the order to fire, and he did so, along with the other voltigeurs belonging to the company. He clicked the trigger and the weapon burst forth.

 _BANG!_

Smoke and smooth erupting from the hallow opening afront the device. The recoil felt powerful, pushing him back slightly due to an untrained body. If he had held it improperly, the new voltigeur private would have dislocated his arm. And was it _amazing._ For the first time ever, he felt his body tremble in excitement. There was no madness for a moment, no fear, only the excitement to fight. All that power, that thunderous power, held at his fingertips. He felt invincible. He felt that he could truly defeat the White Walkers. He probably didn't need to either, because the Others would run, run away, like the cravens they were those eight thousand years ago.

The heavy wind heaved and scratched his face, but it didn't matter. The eruptions from the line was too powerful. It blocked all other sounds from the massive encampment. Another order was given to load. He followed thoroughly, albeit slowly, but he succeeded despite his lack of experience. It felt _natural_ to him. " _Feu!"_

 _BANG!_

 _"Premier et charger!"_

 _"Préparer!"_

 _"Présent!"_

 _"Feu!"_

 _BANG!_

 _"Premier et charger!"_

 _"Préparer!"_

 _"Présent!"_

 _"Feu!"_

 _BANG!_

The pops flared in quick succession. The same wonderous feeling endured throughout their training. After learning the basics of the musket, Will was given his own uniform: a blue coat with a yellow collar and cuffs piped red, yellow bugle horns on the turnbacks, white trousers and lapels, and to top it all off, a hat he was introduced to as a _shako_ , a plain black cylindrical military cap that was adorned by yellow chevrons, a visor, green cords, and a yellow-tipped green plume that extended from the frontal top of the topwear. Humorously enough, he couldn't wait to get rid of those rags and that black cloak the Night's Watch had bestowed to him, and wear these instead. They looked appealing, actually. While not the most humble of tunics, the uniforms gave off an essence of wealth and power. If these uniforms were that decorated, he could only guess that the French Empire was something of a utopia—where everyone was free under the rule of a benevolent monarch. One that was actually _good_ on his job. He imagined cities that were clean and surreal. A paradise under the blanket of the sun.

He promptly removed his rags. While he dropped it onto the ground, he felt _free_. Free for once, in all his life. Marshal Davoust had been there to congratulate him in his official commission as a _Soldat_ , one that belonged to the French Grand Army. He now sported the voltigeur uniform. It felt majestic to be in it. The former brother felt like a _lord_.

 _"You would make your comrades proud,"_ he exclaimed, _"think of this as a start of a new life for you, away from the Night's Watch, and fighting for a new cause. I'm here to help you in that path."_

After his uniforms came his very own military kit, which comprised of many things he didn't know at first. Many of these tools and objects were of no use to him since he never saw them in the first place. However, there were a few he recognized. Apart from his military apparel was his knapsack, where his personal belongings were to place. Above it were mess tins and his greatcoat. There was also the water canteens, which were similar enough to the usual wineskins he was associated with. The _giberne_ , or cartridge pouch, would include his ammo. There were also a linen bag that contained his knife, spoon, and fork, a mug, a wooden bowl, a leather pouch for his coin, a small framed mirror, a shaving kit, and two mechanical contraptions the Marshal discerned as a ' _pocket watch_ ' and a ' _compass_ '. The ' _watch_ ' told him the time while the ' _compass_ ' always pointed north, through some sorcery Davoust explains as the world's ' _magnetism_ '.

He didn't know much about it, so he decided not to question the foreigner's ways. If they were this advanced, then he had time to learn about them some other day. _Perhaps a maester will come to study such knickknacks and trinkets_.

That was just about Will's routine as a new soldier, an _auxiliary_. While the others were quite distraught (more like irritated) about his new assignation unto the voltigeur company of the _5e Corps Battalion_ and he had little to no friends (other than the bully Sergeant Antoine and Marshal Davoust), he was comfortable. He was part of a new belonging, a new duty.

The company was marching behind it's fellow brother-at-arms, steadily retaining a line that was as straight as the edge of a longsword. Boots hit the ground, sending small shocks upon the earth and snow. It was a breathtaking experience.

Even with fatigue, the men stood strong. Even with hunger, the men stood strong. Even with death and suffering in every corner, the men stood strong. The banners of the Emperor danced widely, the hundreds of staves of the golden eagle maneuvered with finesse, and the muskets with their bayonets waved around the field as the soldiers of the French Grand Army continued their exodus to the upper North.

* * *

 **Charles**

Charles Minard took his new promotion lightly. The other engineers, mathematicians, carpenters, and architects that were recruited into the fray congratulated him. His efforts came with fruits of course. While his new companion, _Colonel_ Testot-Ferry, became the official head of not only the _Eclaireurs_ , but was also officially designated as the supreme commander of the Imperial Guard's Heavy Cavalry. Whatever remains of it, anyways. Last he heard, the rest of the Imperial Guard was dysfunctional, nonexistent, and void of all their duties as Napoleon's elites. They were literally _demoted_ , now integrated with the rest of the _normal_ soldiers. The Guards were relatively positive, though. They respected the decisions made by their leader. He also understood it too. _The Army needs all the unity and men it could get_. _I too need to do my duty._

Out of the nine pontoon companies that were mobilized at the start of the French invasion, three survived, along with one pontoon train. The two marine companies were completely obliterated during their retreat across the Smolensk route. Charles had the faint idea that the Russians wanted them to be there, on that lonely road. To be trapped, with no hope of getting a smidge of supply. It was a purposeful strategy. The Russians were starving them out.

Out of the nine sapper companies, one remained. Out of the six mining companies, three was saved from the ravenous effects of winter attrition and battle. The engineer park, though, was the only combat service and support division that remained intact. That's not say that the company was exactly complete. Many of them were ill and sick. Dysentery, diarrhea, necrosis, athlete's foot, typhus, and the good ol' common cold. Injuries were becoming more and more common as the march ceased to hault. However, not in the literal sense. Without the needed amount of food and proper medical supplies, Charles was surprised that even the Army survived this much torment these past couple of months. The dead piled up too, from all over the flanks. The toll has reached numbers of above a thousand. The animals weren't so lucky either, horse and oxen. They dropped dead on their tracks and was chopped up afterwards with blunt knives and axes from the sappers. _What a way to die._ _Pauvres bâtards._

As leading officer of the Grand Army's Geographical Engineering Corps, he and his colleagues were responsible for the cartography of the landscape, studying of natural formations on land, and aid in the movement of nearly fifty thousand souls across the barren wasteland of the lands beyond the Wall. This much he knew, from his recent meetings with the Emperor, his entourage of Marshals and generals, as well as that sour-faced Davoust. _I don't like him. Too... bitter..._

Over the course of their mass 'migration' to the famed Elysian Valley. Or the ' _Thenn_ '. It was such a strange name, but as claimed by that scrawny golden-headed English fellow, the natives their were very prideful of their name, land, and ancestors. " _The First Men ruled these lands,_ " he remembered Davoust translate to him what the boy had just said. They were meeting with the foreigner for the first time (his first time anyways, and strangely enough, the Colonel of the _First Scouts_ wasn't there to greet him). _Probably scouting_. 'Will' (very English name) swore his fealty to His Majesty, and was subsequently recruited into the Grand Army. Under the ever watchful eye of Marshal Davoust, their guest was a _Soldat_. A private. _An Englishman in the Emperor's Court_.

Afterwards, the meetings became noncomplacent. He was rarely called. Though, he hoped the map would maintain its uses to the council. His company focused more on broken trains, carts, and carriages. It wasn't much, but at least, he was doing his part, along with his associates.

The cold wind blew over their little gathering, the fire cracking and glowing. The sun was soon to set, and their company of scholars were shifting about, trying to be as warm as possible with what layers they had. Greatcoats, not every effective in weather as chilly as this. Furs would do great, but not right now. The foragers, which were volunteers from the ranks, were hunting as much as they could. He could hear the singular bursts of muskets from a mile away, resonating across the valley of trees, mountains, hills, and rivers, along with the yelps of the animals themselves, downed by a force they have never met or witnessed before.

"We're all gonna die," one of the engineers said. Piedmont was his name and a younger fellow compared to Mindard's age. "So hungry..."

"Pull yourself together," another piped in. Javier was an older engineer, coming from Paris itself. He joined the company during Napoleon's reccruitment drive at the start of the 1808 campaign against the Spanish Empire. From then on, he remained in the military as a senior officer for the Engineer Park. He himself recruited some pontooniers for the Emperor himself, but never got enough recognition to be the company's leader. "If you think like that, you'll surely die with that kind of mentality."

Alexandre Piedmont eyed the older man for a second, glaring, then retreated back to the thoughts of his mind. Gustav Javier stood up, took a stick from the snowy ground, and began poking it to the dying fire. The other engineers were far too frail and weakened from the journey to even move their lips. Sealed, chapped, and dry. The water wouldn't help. It would freeze them.

Apart from Javier, Piedmont, and Minard, there were Roland Bachelet, Martial Barthet, Bruno Bullion, Hubert Brazier, Gérard Carpentier, Médard Delafose, and Gaspard Barnier. All them important, all of them working day and night, all of them significant to the Emperor's cause. He pushed that thought out of his head, his ears suddenly stormed by the noise emanating from the sprawling camp beyond their measly corner.

"I'm getting more wood," he announced, standing up. No one bothered to acknowledge that, not even Javier. Suprisingly enough, Piedmont stood up as well.

"I'll come with. Better to be moving than staying here and waiting to die." There was a slight humour to his voice, and irony too. Minard ignored it, though. He couldn't stomach a joke right now. After visiting one of the stocks, they found out the wood has ran out. No more batches were to come until the lumberjacks came back. Cursing himself, he beckoned Piedmont to follow.

Charles and Alexandre now wondered about the woods. The younger engineer carried thin sticks of dried wood they had found lying on the ground. Some of it was plucked from younger trees. Charles himself carried a bundle, a small one, by Alexandre had a thicker one.

"I think we should go back now." Alexandre mumbled, too cold to say the statement louder. He was shivering and walked awkwardly. Charles nodded promptly and the pair departed with haste. Minard could have sworn he saw a few shadows approaching them. Perhaps some of the soldiers patrolling the premises. There were, after all, natives around. He never did ponder whether there either. Feeling secure enough, the pair continued their trek towards their part of the camp. They passed oxen grazing on dried leaves and wheat, along with horses as well. Meat sizzled while the smell proliferated their noses. It was deer meat. Not the usual horse or oxen. Horses trotted about as officers or cavalry men made their moves from inside the camp. The spaces along the aisles of tents and shelters were wide enough to fit them. The paths were black with dirt and mud, the snow melting into the soil due to friction. There was no dust.

Steam arises from boiling pots of broth and water. What made that process convenient was that while they get water from the snow, it cleaned the water as well. It was enough to eliminate the impurities that resided. The boiling water also provided warmth with every sip. The men haven't bathed in a long time now. It was _unhygienic_ for the most part.

Once they returned, they tossed the required number of sticks and thin logs to keep the campfire going. All the whole Charles placed the spares aside for later use. They resettled and relaxed. There was to be no work today. The company of ten would rest easy tonight.

Before Charles could even close his eyes to entrance himself with slumber, men begun shouting. It wasn't so much of a scream, but a warning. To alert the camp. The engineers jolted awake, erratically looking around to gain some news. A soldier came by.

"There's a situation north of the camp! Barbarians! Savages! They come! God save us!" The man left without another word.

Charles and Javier looked at each other and dispersed their own contemplation to the other engineers. All of them quickly got up and rushed their way towards the upper part of the camp.

 _Things just got interesting._


	7. Chapter VI

**AN: Hey? I'm back! And more than late than ever! Sorry for the long hiatus, but I'm happy I could upload another chapter to this story. As always, I don't own anything. Thanks for reading and enjoy the story.**

 **The show must go on!**

* * *

 **Chapter VI - An Englishman in Napoleon's Court, Part II**

 _"Can you not understand that liberty is worth more than glory?"_

 _\- Jerome of House Bonaparte, 300 AC_

* * *

 **Ney**

"And who, pray tell, decided that using what little ammunition we have was the wisest choice in our current circumstances?" asked Marshal Ney, clearly irritated that one of his men had the audacity to break an order. After all, they were already in a bad position. Wasting ammo and grenades for something as small as _drilling_ was going too far. He understand men had to train, for a fight is never far away, and they were in a world that would gut them like pigs should the time come, but he never understood the stubbornness of soldiers.

"A sergeant under General Compans, from the one of the _5e Battalion's_ fusilier company. A veteran if I might add. Goes by the name of Baptiste Antoine," answered the dull-faced Davoust, who was equally annoyed that one of his generals couldn't administer control on a quite rebellious officer of the Grand Army. "Compans insisted that he wasn't aware that Sergeant Antoine would actually use live rounds. As soon as shots were fired, others quick to notice. At least three volleys had gone off. That's what, three hundred rounds wasted?"

"Three hundred less souls to be claimed," murmured Ney. "It's getting out of hand, Davoust. Rebellions here, mutinies there. And now what? We have our own officers disobey our rationing? The Emperor will be most displeased." The commander of the I Infantry Corps stood up, bowed to the corner of the table, and proceeded to leave the pavilion, leaving Davoust alone with the King of Westphalia.

* * *

 **Jérôme**

Things were certainly getting out of hand. Jérôme knew of this. Even when they are so close to their destination, the Grand Army was as fragmented as a cracked case of glass. It's fragile and brittle. Anything that could go wrong will go wrong. Mutinies from the regulars were normal, but when officers rebel, that was certainly too much to bear. It demonstrated the clear weakness of the Grand Army. It can no longer function as one if something isn't done. Jerome sighed.

"My Prince," Davoust turned, "I'd like to take my leave for now. There is much to be done concerning our armed forces." The man had a tint of respect in his voice, but also distress. Something that wasn't normal for someone as sour as the Duke of Auerstaedt. Jerome merely waved a hand, to which the man nodded, and vacated the pavilion as well.

Jérôme was alone again, like any other miserable soul in this damned wasteland. He began to ponder about the future of the French. Will they survive? Will they truly establish a dynasty of prosperity?

Then a sudden blare ringed around his ears. There were wild shuffles of feet and muskets. Men yelling and screaming as if a wild animal had just stumbled upon their camp. Perhaps a pack of wolves or a bear? He wasn't sure. Then begun the alarms, bells suspended upon tall rectangular poles of wood that resounded even when muffled by the tent's layers. Jerome rushed to the tent fly, confused of the sight that was beholden. Riflemen were rushing towards the northern portion of the camp.

"Sire," Davoust approached with his aids, "a situation north of the camp. I was on my way to meet General Compans to deal with Sergeant Antoine, but, it seems that another matter requires our attention."

"Let us see. Tell one of your aids to warn the other generals and the Emperor as well, though, I figured that with all the commotion, they would have already known."

Davoust soon ordered his men to disperse and alert the other officers. This could escalate quickly.

Jérôme was virtually running to the scene as more of the French gathered towards the north of the encampment, armed and ready. Davoust was ordering them to make way for the Prince, to which they obeyed without question. When they went deeper into the crowd, the men were silent, with steel eyes glaring at the source of this unwanted disorder.

The men were now separated from his left and right sides, waiting. They finally reached the end, where infantrymen aimed their muskets, ready to shoot at the command of their officers and generals. Jerome felt the tension in the air. He eyed at the people before him.

It was _them_. The wildlings. The barbaric nomads that supposedly ravaged the Wall for want of food, supply, and pillage. There were those who had brown and black crowns on their heads with unshaven facial features. Jerome took notice of a ginger in the midst of the rabble, and was a brute of a man. The others, however, almost shook his spine.

The other savages were with no hair, shaven in fact to a shiny finish, and pail skin to match their already horrific features. There were scars on their heads as well as their hands. Jérôme figured they too had such impurities all over their bodies. It matched well with the description that was told to them of the scouts led by Colonel Claude. So these were the _Thenns_. Whatever they had done, Jerome had no want of knowing.

At the vanguard of the wildling group, who counted as numbering at least fifty or so, was a man of middling height, slender, sharp faced, with shrewd brown eyes and brown hair that gone mostly grey. Even for his slim features, the man had a broad chest, from what he saw of his frame. He was covered with black furs and torn rags, clothing that were not worn since the era of the viking of his time, but there was a sense of civility in the way the barbarian presented himself.

"Davoust," he said, which caused the marshal to step closer, "I do believe a welcome is in place."

The troops immediately rendered their aimed muskets, but still stood on alert. "Welcome," said Davoust in the English language. "You stand before Jérôme-Napoleon Bonaparte, Prince of the French Empire and King of Westphalia. State your intentions."

There was a short silence when finally, the man in the front spoke up, "The name's Mance. Mance Rayder." The savage moved forward and unsheathed what had to be a makeshift dagger and blade. The others became weary and quickly moved to aim at the man, but Davoust intervened.

"Stand your ground!" he said in French. Jérôme understood this time. This was too much English to take.

Seemingly confused, the man who called himself Mance Rayder shrugged away his puzzled look and dropped the two blades he was holding. What would have made a sound in say, a floor of marble, was silenced by the soft cushioning of snow below them. The Frenchmen eased their stances, but was still cautious of any hostile attempts by the wildlings.

"I want to parley with your leader," Mance said, "treat with him, or her, if you will. There is something I'd like to discuss."

Jérôme didn't what he said, and asked Davoust, which happily explained the savage's request.

"Parley? What position is he to negotiate with my brother? They are but barbarians," replied Jerome, glaring at the 'supposed' fiend. He hoped that this Rayder had something good to say to his brother. Anything as mediocre as 'surrender' or 'give us your weapons or die' was surely a waste of time. Napoleon would have them arrested and used as hostages for future encounters at best or execute them for this spite on his dignity at worst. "Though, he is quite civil about it. I see no threat in his words," Jérôme finished.

"As you say, my Prince. It seems that there are no violent intentions from this man. I suggest we accept his request. We should show our civility." Jérôme merely nodded at that. Bloodshed was not necessary at the moment.

Davoust turned to Mance Rayder and proclaimed the Prince's answer. "His Majesty the Prince has accepted your request," he said, "and welcomes you with open hospitality. The Prince shall talk with his brother about this matter. In the meantime, we are willing to let you inside the camp. You can only bring another two with you."

Jérôme was aware that allowing more than representative could be dangerous, but it also had the benefit of security. If the Grand Army was this generous, the barbarians would think twice about retaliating should something happen by accident.

"I'll bring Tormund Giantbane and Loboda with me. No more, no less," answered Mance Rayder, "and we shall leave our weapons behind with our men. Please, allow them to camp outside."

Davoust nodded. A gesture of good will, perhaps. This way, the French could gain the trust of the supposedly unruly men that were the Wildings.

* * *

 **Mance**

The strange men were... well... strange, to say the least. Mance Rayder considered their origins. They wore no armor, only fabric and cloth to cover themselves from the cold, with wild colors that wouldn't do well in the field. Blue, green, white, red, and gold were well apparent in their clothing. It also meant something else... These outsiders were wealthy, as he can tell. The man who called himself Davoust, pronounced with a silent _s_ , referred to the younger lad _prince_. They couldn't be from King's Landing, as obviously foretold from their language, nature, and behavior. Mayhaps they were mercenaries from one of the Free Cities? He only heard stories from rare passing ships and the occasional smugglers near the Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, of the many sellsword and sellsail companies that dotted the Narrow Sea and the following continent of Essos. However, they didn't sound like the rabble he had heard of or the fierce, loyal, yet gold-driven warriors of the Golden Company. The men he had seen so far were soldiers, if not trained, then very much loyal to whoever seats on the top. Their so-called "Emperor". Such a strange title, as men of power usually claimed to be King or Prince of something or what not. _King-Beyond-the-Wall_ was beholden to that fact.

What more could he see of these visitors from the other side of the world? Their weapons. They had horses, yes, and quite large ones in fact, as he had seen from that scout force a while ago. Only a few had their swords, ones with curved blades good for slashing opponents, and some had what looked to be intricately designed wood hanging from their belts, held in a pocket made leather. They had a long structure, at least at half an arm's length, with smaller pieces of metal carved and held in place, from the front, bottom, and top. A long metal tube stood out from the other parts, with a hole towards the front end. The back seemed to serve as a handle as he could see from the design. Perhaps it was a pipe? And then, as if the Old Gods of the Forest weren't satisfied enough with the perplexing gazes of Tormund, Loboda, and himself, the strangers conjured even larger versions of the strange contraptions, this time the barrel reaching at shoulder's length, and their heights greatly enhanced with blades attached to their ends. They looked like spears, but why design them this way? Maybe it had a two functions, to which Mance had no knowledge of. Then he remembered that small ball during his meeting with the Magnar of the Thenn. Could there be a connection between these two? Before he could come up with an answer, Tormund, unfortunately, interrupted him of his thoughtful reverie. The full view of the tent's interior came into view as his eyes slowly focused on the large ginger.

"Mance, you there? Welcome back to the land of the living," said the man in a comical fashion, "I thought I had lost you to the cold, though it's quite warm here." He slowly glanced at the latern. Loboda was silent, not a comment said.

"What do you think of 'em? The funny-looking bastards look weary and tired, but they're ready alright. It's as if they went through a battle to get here."

 _More like a war_ , Mance thought. He realized the conditions of the massive camp were piss-poor compared to heaping mess of lumber, stone, and ice that is Castle Black. Men were freezing like there was no tomorrow. "They're strange, Tormund, very strange. I'd mistaken them for greenboys and smallfolk, but they have that looks in their eyes."

"Aye," the younger man answered, "I see no craven here, but warriors. I respect them for that, even if they killed one of the Thenns, as stupid as they are."

Loboda eyed Tormund carefully. The Giantsbane shrugged, now willing to answer back.

An eerie silence overcame the tent once again. He could tel that his two other companions were uneasy, being behind enemy lines. As far as things went, the foreigners are mighty, but barely so, weakened by both the eternal winter of the realm beyond the Wall and an inherent lack of hope. He need not to look twice that the men were desperate, and he knew where this was going. Their Emperor will be more than willing to do what it takes to rid themselves of such a hazard. So, he decided quickly on the matter. He would try to ally with the Emperor. And hopefully, in his effort to aid his people, the Emperor will help him and _his_ people cross the Wall, far away from the threat of the White Walkers, and as far away south as the tides would take them.

Mance returned to his senses as soon as he finished his mental work, thinking and considering about possible ways he could maneuver that would be beneficial for both the foreign host and the Free Folk. He knew well that the Thenn, along with other tribes, will not be amused about his decision.

He stood up immediately, the silhouette of his erected shadow dancing in the shade, rather glow, of the strange, boxy, contraption that was placed on the center of the temperorary home. Loboda paid no mind, his eyes busily farted at the flames of what the foreigners called a " _lamp"_ , which seemed to magically remain alight with no wood. Though, the space within was too small to even contain a log of wood to accommodate the fire. The Giantsbane looked up towards his chosen leader, expecting Mance to speak or tell his bidding.

"We're going to ally with them," Mance said firmly. Loboda stopped his mindless staring and also looked up, his face forming a blank look. Tormund, on the other hand, tried to look aghast, but couldn't. He could tell that the man had expected his decision as well.

"You know that Styr will be furious," Loboda added sternly, "that title of yours is as good as gone to the Thenns. The Thenn don't ally themselves to anyone, especially cunts that they don't know."

"We have an opportunity to take here, Loboda, and I suggest we take it. We can ally with these foreigners, provide them the comfort of the Valley, and know of their ways before we march to the Wall. With at least a half more than our current numbers, Castle Black will be overwhelmed. We will be victorious."

"That depends, Mance. Aye, they'll probably ally with you, seeing that these pansies are desperate for much good game and rest. But that _prince_ and his bastard kneeler translator, with how they refer to their _Emperor_ , it seems that they'd sooner stab us in the back before we even have a glimpse of the Wall. Say _he_ does agree with helping us to get south, but he'll ask for more. Sooner or later, he'll threaten us of death and misery with whatever sorcery these bastards use if, say, we don't bend the knee to them. I won't bow to some foreign shites and their whores." The Thenn's rant was long and painstakingly hit too close to home. Loboda had a point, but Mance didn't want to keep his position any longer than necessary. There will come a time a new man will lead on in his stead. All men die. This whole King-Beyond-the-Wall nonesense was nothing more than a means to unite his people and save them from what he had seen. He couldn't let them die. Even the Thenns, with their cannibalism, the monstrosity that are the giants, and the moon-worshippers. He, as any other man proud of his heritage, would do anything to preserve it.

Mance held the title of King for more than a decade now, since the last Winter. And now, the Long Winter is truly coming. He'll sooner sacrifice himself just to see his people free from whatever lies beyond the Lands of Always Winter. Loboda was wrong. He will not bend the knee, but he will offer the hand of the Free folk. After all, no one owns anyone, and especially not him. Never him.

"Mance?" Tormund asked, "you really want to go through with this?"

"Aye," he replied, "freefolk or no freefolk, we might as we join together. There's no use in fighting them, or lest we all die at the hands of the Others. All of it would've been for nothing. The wars end now or never. The Free folk will see peace."

The red-headed warrior nodded in agreement. It couldn't have been said better. Loboda stares in disbelief, but conceded.

"We are yet to see your triumph _your grace_ ," the Thenn said idignantly, with as much disdain and hate towards the concept as any free folk, "the bastards might as well cut off our heads and pike 'em all over their little camp if our little stunt fails."

Mance paid no heed to the savage's talk. Suddenly, a shadow came upon their tent.

" _L'empereur appelle pour vous_ ," a young voice said.

"It's time," Mance said finally, before leading out his entourage towards the breach.

* * *

 **Napoleon**

It was so that Mance Rayder, Loboda the Thenn, and Tormund Giantsbane arrived at the so-called Emperor's Pavillion, a tent that was larger than that all the others, guarded by the sturdy and gallant members of the French Imperial Guard. The Old Guard, despite the major divisions of days ago, remained with their Emperor, to protect him, especially with savages and barbarians within their camps. It reminded them of the Vikings and Germanic tribes of old, the parasitic vagrants they were, that once toppled the mighty Roman Empire. They were aware, forwarned, and alert, as is any other man in the camp.

Banners flew high on the two supporting poles the campaign tent, its entrance closed, as the distant murmurs of men from inside could be heard. The flickering of the lights from lamps were visible, so were the black figures of Napoleon's staff. A great contrast to the starry void covering the skies.

It wasn't Napoleon's private quarters, of course. Here, his generals, marshals, and officers were gathered to witness a historic moment during their first few weeks after the Event: a diplomatic discussion between two foreign powers. A first contact, as one might say, even if the representative were barbarians. It was a start.

Napoleon Bonaparte, His Imperial and Royal Majesty, the Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Helvetic Confederation, considered recent events surrounding the Grand Army's encampment. Barbarians have come, yes, but their intentions were other than to _parley_ with them. More associated is he with the French _parler_ , which literally meant "to speak", and he was all too familiar with how the English used it frequently. They wanted to speak, or should he say, to negotiate, according to Davoust. It was certainly what the Marshal had observed from the man's tone. He'll see soon enough.

The atmosphere within the Emperor's Pavilion was a solemn one, despite the news of negotiation. They were anxious to meet the faces of this Brave New World, one with too many unknowns for one to consider. There was naught but darkness outside, as the night had come upon them. A yellow-orange hue encompassed the entire scene, and despite that, the frigidity remained. Clouds came out of conversing mouths. Shoulders and backs shook at the cold, hands and arms trying to keep themselves as far away from the frosty tendrils of the climate as possible. And thus, their greatcoats lingered on.

So far, the only native they had met was Davoust's little experiment. The English boy, Will, had taken a liking to the soldier's life, even if he lacked the training. He would make a true soldier out of him yet, converted to the French culture and tradition, to the glory of the Empire, to the heirs of Charlemagne and Augustus Ceasar. The boy would make a fine servant towards liberty and freedom. He was, after all, their only source of information regarding the nature of the lands beyond the Wall and the Sodom below. Napoleon expects that that would soon change, and he'll only be reliable concerning the affairs of the Southern part of the continent. No matter, however.

To his left and right-hand side, respectively, Jérôme was seated as befitted a man of his title and rank, and so did his stepson, Eugène. All of them were in fact seated in makeshift thrones: three simple wooden chairs, draped with the colors of the French Empire. They were surrounded by the rest of the general staff, with all the Marshals present and accounted for. Davoust, ever the stone-faced man, remained at their side. He was named, along with his duties as Marshal, the Chief Royal Translator for the three monarchs. He took the title with gratitude, of course, honored that he could work closer with the Emperor and the Prince towards a lasting peace in this part of the world. Napoleon only hoped so, as their gunpowder, at it's current amount, wouldn't last them a battle because their men would sooner die due to the infernal cold.

Marshals Ney and MacDonald were the second closest officers, who seemed to be discussing about the barbarians. He heard Ney joke about "finally meeting MacDonald's relatives" to which the other general responded with a face slowly contorting towards a scowl. Ney apologized soon after, which seemed to liven up the moment for a bit, but anyways, died down to that same, grim atmosphere. Napoleon was well aware that MacDonald himself was of Scottish descent, but the man was born and raised a Frenchman, and nothing could change that.

His Chief-of-Staff, Berthier, lay in the background, chatting with other generals concerning logistics and the state of the men. Murat, as usual, boasted about his skills with the horse, maintaining that ever charming personality and flamboyant outfit. Murat was not the ambitious type, and insisted that he remain absent from the royal seats. The other Marshals were in their own discussions, unaware that their Emperor gave mind to them.

The appointed usher announced the arrival of the foreigners, their names heralded according to what Davoust had garnered from his short chat with this Mance Rayder character.

"Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"Tormund the Giantsbane."

"Loboda of the Thenns."

The barbarians dressed in nothing more than rags and animal hides and fur, sewn together to create makeshift coats that formed awful textures to the eyes.

 _Speaking of eyes_ , Napoleon thought. His glance worked its way across the interior of the tent. Everyone was silent, their sights equally bored on the new comers, with expressionless faces that meant nothing to him. The one Marshal Davoust had referred to as Mance Rayder seemed to huff a small sigh before continuing his walk towards the improvised dais. As they came closer, however, he realized how tall they were, and how proud they marched on. He liked that kind of confidence, friend or foe. They proved to be a challenge to his seasoned, military mind. The procession eventually came to a halt several paces from the wooden thrones.

As planned, Ney and Davoust begun the introductory statements.

"You stand before His Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon the First, By the Grace of God and of the Consitutions of the Empire, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, and Co-Prince of Andorra, and his brothers: His Imperial Majesty Jérôme the First, French Prince, and King of Westphalia; and His Imperial Majesty Eugène of the House of Beauharnais, French Prince, Prince of Venice, Heir to the Grand Duchy of Frankfurt, and Heir Presumptive and Viceroy to the Kingdom of Italy. His Imperial and Royal Majesty has seen the wisdom in acknowledging your call for a dialogue, and wishes to settle it," said Ney in flawless French. Davoust repeated these same words, but in English, as to accommodate their guests. The dark-haired burley man stood unfazed by the shower of titles and names, while the red-head and the bald one stared in awe, despite the lack thereof of open mouths. Everyone knew Davoust had somber and boring tone to his speech, distant event from emotion, but when used properly, could produce a terrifying, booming voice that made immediate results.

The Rayder fellow acknowledged the titles and nodded. He said something in a foreign language he knew too well not to recognize. Davoust reciprocated the man's statement towards the Emperor of the French.

"He says he is pleased to meet you, Your Majesty, and luckily so in just the right time," the Marshal said, with a slight confusion in his voice, "he hoped that the discussion would be private, but with the ears of your entire staff present, Mon General, it seems he had gotten what he least expected to happen."

"Well? Tell us why you have come," said Napoleon, eyes narrowing. His brain began to churn. _Now that was interesting_ , he thought, _the barbarian has come with terms_. Davoust, without another word, repeated Napoleon's question, almost immediately getting an answer.

"My Emperor, Mance Rayder asks for an alliance. He wants the so-called 'Freefolk' to join the Grand Army's journey."

A silence then overcame the room, before erupting into near-chaos.

"This is outrageous!" one of the officers said. "Execute the bastards!" another quipped loudly, with much disrelish and loathing. "English cunts! What do take us for? Traitors? Over my dead body!" a voice howled, this time from MacDonald. Napoleon has never expected a man, let alone a Marshal or the Empire, could use such language. Of course, the Emperor has expected such behavior from the patriotic ranks of his command staff. They were too proud to call the Freefolk, or Wildings as that Will fellow liked to call them, allies as they reminded them too much of the English. Additionally, they wore garments of barbarians and heathens. There was no civility in the way these men carried themselves. Regardless of whatever these savages follow and practice as their culture, Napoleon was sure that they did not reflect the much more civilized peoples of Europe. It was an audacious on their part.

However, Napoleon saw not only a chance for the Grand Army to survive, but as an opportunity. He would have to hear of the terms later on in detail, with the help of Davoust of course.

Napoleon raised his palm, and the chaos immediately died out. The two men behind Mance Rayder, already alert and ready to pounce as soon as one of his officers started something, were pacified of their wrath when the officers were rendered silent. Unsure, they looked toward the impromptu thrones. The Rayder fellow remained expressionless and unmoving, but his demonstration of integrity was caught on by the Emperor. He shouldn't really elongate this night any further. A brief response and agreement would be enough.

"Marshal Davoust," he continued as he lowered his right palm, "ask them of their offer. I want to know what we get in return."

And Davoust did question Mance Rayder. The Englishman gave his quick response.

"My Emperor, he will give the Grand Army resources and foodstuffs and fighting men. A hundred thousand, and counting. The Grand Army will be given free passage into the Thenn Valley and allowed to stay for an indefinite amount of time. He only asks that the cultures and laws of the Freefolk be respected if they are to join the host and that we aid them in their journey south. They want to cross the Wall."

Napoleon nodded in Davoust's explanation. Indeed the survival of the Grand Army hangs by a thread. This deal was too good to be true, but at the same time, it could be bait. How can he trust these foreigners? Should he help them? How can the Grand Army remain in an orderly fashion of it accepts vagabonds to roam within itself? Will they follow the rules the French will establish? He did not know. Napoleon needed more time to think. Perhaps, until tomorrow, before they begin moving once again.

"I shall think of this matter and will decide upon the morrow," he declared. His answer was reiterated in English by Davoust. The burly man seemed to be satisfied with the answer, seemingly pleased that there was a chance he would accept. Napoleon continued, however.

"The King-Beyond-the-Wall and his entourage can remain within the encampment for the night and tomorrow morning. By then, I shall have my answer."

And with that, the meeting was concluded. Firstly, Mance Rayder and his comrades were guided outside by the Old Guards, heading towards north of the camp, where his other men were bound to be. Then, the other officers filed out, while the generals and Marshals remained with the three monarchs. As the last of the junior officers had left, Napoleon stood up, almost ready to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. It was Jérôme's.

"Brother," the youth said, "what will you do?"

"I must think," he answered sharply, but not too harshly. "This presents us with an opportunity."

"I second that, father" Eugène added, his arms crossed across his uniforms, still seated upon the wooden throne. "If the Englishman wants help, we'll give it to him. He'll give us what the army will need to survive for the rest of our journey. We get to the Valley without bloodshed."

Another voice came, this time, Ney's, heartily agreeing with the French Prince. "The Prince is right, Your Majesty. If we are to survive, we might as well take this offer to our advantage. Should we help them cross the Wall, they will be debted to us. We will need the manpower to restart the Empire."

The Marshals, of course, provided their fair share of reasoning in agreeing with the offer. As for the savages, they can be educated. It was up to the French to civilize them with religion and culture. They shall fall to the Empire's reach. There was much support to the agreement, and that was enough for Napoleon to consider an agreement.

"Your Majesty, if I may," approached Marshal MacDonald. The French-born Scotsman held a face fixed with a painfully hardened expression.

"Go ahead, Jacques," he decreed with a wave of his hand.

"I don't like this, Sire. This 'Mance Rayder', his too suspicious. He comes out of nowhere and offers a helping hand to the Grand Army. How are we to trust him? A barbarian? He might as well slaughter our men should we allow them to stay here tonight!"

"I'm confident in my decision, Marshal," Napoleon answered. It was clear and straight to the point. MacDonald understood fully. Though there was a slight flash of anger in his eyes. The Emperor of the French narrowed his own sights, noticing that quick glimps from the officer, after which MacDonald had finally conceded.

"I... yes, Your Majesty," he stuttered, "I was wrong to judge your decision. It was not my place. Forgive me. It... it might have been the evening air."

The rest of the night saw the Emperor, his brother and stepson, as well as the rest of the Marshals and generals plan an agreement that wouldn't be too demanding to the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

It was also then decided that the time has come. The Grand Army will know of their current predicament. Transparency was key in these times. Otherwise, you get skepticism, which leads to doubt. Over time, that doubt might as well fester into treachery. That would not do.

* * *

 **Claude**

The First _Eclaireurs_ , much to their dismay, arose and was greeted by the bright, blue, dull sky, and an almost familiar scene of rolling hills, covered with sheets of white, as well as the occasional patch of dead woods, while sharp and twisting mountains lined the rest of the horizon. Claude Testot-Ferry gritted his teeth in the cold. But there was nothing he could. They had to move forwards.

The scout horses were reduced into a slow pace as they approached the Thenn Valley, the climate getting significantly colder every minute. Trees became a rare sight as they departed the farthest edges of the Haunted Forest. Claude knew the river was nearby. They were so close...

After what seemed to be hours, they arrived. It was truly a miracle they were able to reach the Valley, Claude knowing well that it was only so by divine intervention. If God had wanted them to live, their purpose in life is yet to end. They had work to do.

One the horses were watered and fed, the scouts began their work on small encampment. Loads were unloaded, tent's brought up, wooden pikes from smear trees sharpened and penetrated into the ground. The regiment of 45 finished the camp in all but a few hours, before the hunting and gathering portion of their journey truly started. Fifteen of the cavalry men were sent into the dee forests to make traps for game, while another fifteen attempted to collect some edible fruits from the wild. Each were directed by lieutenants of his own choosing as soon command of the regiment was handed over to him.

The camp, so far, was located in the very southern tip of the valley. According to the information given by that English boy Claude had the pleasure of talking to (of course, in the presence of one Marshal Louis-Nicolas Davoust), the Thenn tribesmen we're located further northwest, deeper into the local volcano's darkened, protective shell. An eruption must have occurred only recently and he knew that an active volcano was something the Grand Army didn't need to deal with right now. Also nearby were the much more cannibalistic Ice-river clans by the "Milkwater" River, living and thriving into the interior of what Will called the "Frostfangs" Mountains. Truly, a much thought out name, befitting of its nature and shape. They looked like the jagged teeth of a tiger or a lion.

As scouts, the First _Eclaireurs_ resolved to hide themselves from clear sight. The camp was fine by itself, but the fire could attract any would-be attackers from miles away. They could also be mistaken for the Thenn's or Ice-river clans' brethren. Rather than risk being discovered, the fires were put out immediately. Claude would send five riders south to meet up with the main bulk of the Grand Army. With at least a foothold here, progress was made.

The captain saw the cavalrymen, with replenished canteens and food stocks from deer and rabbit meat, as well as reinvigorated and rested horses, leave without much trouble. If trouble, however, came upon then, the scouts were either to hide, or, use their swords. The carabiners were a last resort.

For now, Claude could rest easy as they have finally come. Even with the absence of fire, it felt quite warm within him. He didn't know what it was. Perhaps it was him finally losing himself to the cold.

But he will endure, and so will his men. For the glory of their God, Emperor, and Republic.

* * *

 **Mance**

In the previous night, the most strangest thing had happened. Expecting this foreign _Emperor_ to regard little for his offered terms, Napoleon the First had instead gave time. Until then, there was no clear answer, but it gave him hope. Mance Rayder had to cling to that hope. The Freefolk needn't a war. They needed to head south.

The way these French worked, there was little he could relate with the supposed cutthroat nature of the Seven Kingdoms, where lords were boisterous, corrupt, and ruled over small folk. Where there was backstabbing, more wars that any can imagine in a lifetime, and petty squabbles that lead to bloodshed, death, and destruction. Yet, they know not of the second Long Night.

He arose early that morning, eager to hear the French leader's answer to his terms. Mance, once again, expected negotiations to be altered slightly. It was only predictable. The Grand Army is desperate, and so is it's commanding staff.

Under guests rights, no blood had been shed that night. The wildling group Mance led were accepted into the camp, allowed a space to make rest. Even more so, the French had provided them with food and water. For a starving army, they didn't look like much. In fact, they look like they've been starving a long time ago. And, during that evening, Mance decided he did not like horsemeat.

He had to give it to Loboda for maintaining his self-restraint. The Thenn _were_ one of the most advanced tribes in the lands beyond the Wall, and the most disciplined. The other members of his tribe also made no further advances that would otherwise reveal their protest against his decision to offer an alliance. Mance has been impressed. Tormund, on the other hand, seemed content with whatever he decided. That would have to change. Tormund can't always be a yes-man. He would have to voice his own opinions as well.

It was finally time when a commotion had started in the encampment as soldiers rushed towards an open, flat field nearby. Snow turned into a browny, mushy mixture of mud and water. The entire Grand Army was mobilized into formation, but Rayder didn't understand what the maneuver was for. He and his group remained from a distance. Interestingly, the man named Napoleon came into the front of the massive formation. Several exchanges later, involving some yelling, rallying, and what sounded like chants and war cries, the formation dispersed.

Mance tried to walk around, looking upon the faces of the soldiers. There were confused faces, some in amusement, some in sad and downed expressions. Others were quite angry and furious. Whatever was said, it had a very significant impact in the integrity of the Grand Army.

"Good morning, Your Highness," said a voice in the Common tongue from his side, "it is good to see you." There, Louis-Nicolas Davoust, stood, already dressed in his campaign attire.

"Please, call me Mance," he replied, "and likewise. What was with the soldiers? I saw some of their faces. They don't look too happy."

"The Emperor has announced the Grand Army's predicament: we are no longer in our world but in a new one," came the dry reply. Mance caught on the statement quickly.

"What do you mean by _your_ world?"

"Why Earth of course. It is true that we're foreigners, Mance Rayder, but that is so much more. We are from another world. Another reality, shall we say, by divine intervention or some other excuse by the religiously zealous," responded Davoust in a straight face.

"Liars, all of you," said Loboda, "how in the gods could you have have come from another world. There's only one!" The Thenn was very much frustrated and confused.

"Do you think us as fools?" Tormund reproached, stepping forward and tightening his grip on the hilt of his weapon. The blade of the rusted sword briefly flashed its reflective surface and caught Davoust's gaze. His pupils moved from the sword, towards Tormund, and then the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

"I assure you, it's the truth. You can see for yourself. We are unlike you or your people. We may look human, but we are humans who have progressed. Our Dark Ages has ended 300 years ago, when lords, kings, houses, and churches were the true power in Europe. In here, seems to have perpetrated for nearly 8,000 years." He looked away.

 _Dark ages? Churches? Europe?_ All these new things were coming in and out of his head like air. It didn't make sense. None of it did.

"Nonetheless, more will be said," he continued, "as the Emperor has called for you. A private meeting shall be done that will determine his decision in part of your offer from yesterday evening. It will take place in His Majesty's tent. I hope things go smoothly." Davoust turned. "Gentlemen, Your Majesty." And with a small bow, the Marshal turned and left the group bewildered.

* * *

 **Napoleon**

Napoleon's campaign tent was currently surrounded by an enclave of the Old Guard, where the Emperor himself awaited. After finally announcing to his soldiers of the current fate of the Grand Army, Napoleon hopes that the peace would be maintained. Otherwise, things will rapidly splinter apart. France will not survive. He knew what the men felt: anger, grief, confusion, hurt, and many other emotions he couldn't fathom himself. His mind drifted from memory to memory. The images of his son and Empress wife flashed before his eyes. Napoleon couldn't bare it. He knew he shouldn't have left, but his ambition and overconfidence got in the way. The Emperor of the French expected a quick victory against the Russians.

The soldiers of the Grand Army probably felt the same. That their Emperor would grant them a swift victory. The largest invasion in Europe failed, nonetheless. The Russian Winter swept upon them, engulfing them in temperatures that would make Hell freeze. Now, it was impossible to get them home. If the Grand Army did live on, the soldiers would still be disheartened. They'd rather die than live a life without their loved ones. Napoleon felt the same. He is a soldier, after all.

Snapping back into reality, the Emperor felt a trickle of tear escape his eyes. He quickly wiped it off with his sleeve. Napoleon, as the leader of the French in this world, had a great responsibility placed upon him, divine or not. His people had to survive. He only hoped that it would be so.

Marshal Davoust announced himself by the flaps of the tent's only entrance. After a quick "enter" by Napoleon, the Marshal entered and greeted him.

"My Emperor," he started, "I have informed Mance Rayder of our meeting place."

"Good. Things must go according to plan," said Napoleon, starting from the chair, and finally in front of Davoust. "The future of France will depend upon these next few days. We can either build a dynasty that will last a thousand years, or we can rot in the ground, the very memory of our people, our nation, and our God smothered forever from the face of _this_ Earth."

"Understood, Sire," the Marshal answered. Before anything else was said and done, Napoleon grasped the other's shoulder.

"I am honored to have you in my staff, Davoust. Without you, we wouldn't have been able to figure out where we are. We know nothing of that bastard language, but you sacrificed time and effort to learn it, even if it wasn't meant to be. This knowledge you hold is invaluable to our cause. As expected of a professional military officer, you exceed any established standard. You have done a great service to the Empire," the Emperor said. The latter's face formed a raised brow, not knowing what to expect at that moment.

Napoleon took a small step back and dislodged a medal pinned on his left breast. The _Grand Eagle of the Legion of Honour_ shined as it reflected light from a nearby candle, boasting the smooth surface of the base silver cross and the golden texture of the _Imperial Eagle_ , it's fluttering wings spread in all its glory. Napoleon took another star forward to clamp it on Davoust's own uniform, already glamoured with excessive decorations as befitted a general officer of the Empire. The _Grand Eagle_ blended well with Davoust's own _Légion_ _d'honneur_ medallion.

"I, Napoleon the First of the Imperial House of Bonaparte, By the Grace of God and the Consitutions of the Empire, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, and Co-Prince of Andorra, hereby declare you the titles of the Grand Marshal of the French Empire, Mediator of the Frankish-Thennic Confederation, and First Consul of Nouveau France, with all provisions and privileges appointed with such positions and titles. This I say and command."

Davoust was speechless. He always has been, but not speechless to the point that he was surprised. The Marshal said what had to be said when it was required of him. He gave no remarks or unneeded opinions, wearing that steel mask.

"My Emperor!" The man practically screamed while dropping into the ground with into his knees. "I am not honored!"

"Stand, Davoust! Arise as Grand Marshal of the French Empire," Napoleon countered, his voice firm and clear. Davoust did as he was told, his body trembling before the Emperor.

"For my sake, Davoust, take my gifts with gratitude. You will lead my New France into its rightful place in this pitiful world," the Emperor continued. Davoust is known to be Napoleon's most faithful and loyal officers. Yet, here, in the doorstep of the Lake of Cocytus, the Devil's frozen prison, that loyalty has endured. It was only so that Napoleon gave something in return. Additionally, didn't dare forget about his other commanders, such as Berthier, Ney, and Oudinot, who had maintained their loyalty all this time. They were to become the first Grand Marshals to be proclaimed by Napoleon, who would lead his army to either glorious victory or honorable defeat. If the talks are successful, New France will be established. Sooner or later, all the Grand Army will be give it's due. He would conquer the world for them, for the France he unwillingly abandoned in that pervious world, and for his family.

"Come my friend, it is almost time. I can feel and almost grasp it. History and destiny will be changed forever."

And, just in the nick of time, an Old Guard made himself present and announced the arrival of the "barbarian" delegates.

 _For France._

* * *

 **Ygritte**

Hardhome is the closest thing to a true town that the Free Folk ever built, though by the standards of the Seven Kingdoms south of the Wall it was a modestly sized fishing village. It was perfectly situated in a strong defensive position on the tip of the peninsula known as Storrhold's Point, near waters rich in fish, seals, and sea cows, and with abundant supplies of timber and stone in the surrounding cliffs, well sheltered with caves and caverns.

Six hundred years ago, exactly three hundred years before the eventual invasion and conquest of Aegon Targaryen of the continent Westeros, Its people are said to have been carried off into slavery by slavers from across the Narrow Sea or slaughtered for meat by cannibals out of Skagos, depending on the tale one chooses believe.

The homes of the inhabitants of Hardhome were said to have burned with flames so high and hot that the watchers on the Wall far to the south thought that the sun was rising in from the north. Afterwards, ashes rained down on the and the alike for almost half a year.

Traders and a ship sent by the to investigate reported only nightmarish devastation where Hardhome had stood, a landscape of charred trees and burned bones, waters choked with swollen corpses and blood-chilling shrieks echoing from the cave mouths that pock the great cliff that looms above the settlement, a cliff where no living man or woman could be found.

After that Hardhome was shunned. The wildlings never settled the site again, and rangers roaming north of the Wall told tales of the overgrown ruins of Hardhome being haunted by ghouls, demons, and burning ghosts with an unhealthy taste for blood.

However, superstition was, at least, what all Wildlings believed to be a fact rather than fiction. Others, however, reveled in making their assumptions and theories. One such person is Ygritte.

Quick-witted, courages, wild, fierce, and stubborn, Ygritte possessed great attributes that would otherwise place her in a higher standing within what barely existed of Free folk societal structuring.

Her main physical features consisted of a round face, crooked white teeth, small hands, and a pug nose. Ygritte's most distinctive feature is her thick, shaggy mop of curly bright red hair, paired with blue eyes that distinguished her from other Free women. Considered a great beauty amongst their loose-knit community of warring tribes and peacefully coordinating clans, the Free folk claim her to be "kissed by fire."

The spearwife's everyday clothing comprises of layers of fur and wool and leather, a doeskin shirt and a sewn sheepskin helm. Ygritte wields an axe and bone dagger but prefers a short curved bow of horn and weirwood, arrows fletched with pale grey goose feathers.

She was currently in the warband of the Lord of Bones, mocked with the name of Rattleshirt due to the bones who wore as armor. At Mance Rayder's request, a party was sent from Skirling Pass to Storrhold's Point to scout a potential base of operations for the Free folk's eventual invasion of the lands south of the Wall. Led by Rattleshirt, he included Ygritte in the party. With them were Ryk Longspear, a well endowed warrior with a friendly demeanor, the spearwife Ragwyle, a man by the name of Orell, and others she couldn't quite recall seeing or even heard of. Mance Rayder understood that Eastwatch-by-the-Sea may have been an easier way across the Wall than compared to Castle Black, but with the majority of the Free folk host already condensed within their encampment in the Pass, more time would be wasted should they move the massive hundred-thousand population across the Haunted Forest. It was too suspicious as the Night's Watch would notice almost immediately. Better they stay hidden before the Seven Kingdoms does see the Free folk as a threat and destroy what Rayder has built. Every free man, woman, and child knew of the danger of the White Walkers and their undead army. The First Men fought them, and they kept the ways of the First Men. They might as well believe in their legends and stories of old.

In no time did they finally reach the ice covered shores of Storrhold's Point, sticking out like a sore thumb into the freezing waters of the Shivering Sea. Hardhome was their target, even with its stories of ghouls and ghosts with their appetites for blood and meat of Free folk. Across the cliffs and into the shoreline stood the decrepit ruins of the Free folk's "last" experiment into a fully-functioning, self-sufficient community. The dried, charred skulls of its inhabitants still rested on the permafrost while centuries-old carcasses bore little more than bones. The dockyards were shattered with the wooden carrion of ships and boats while fabrics from what looked to be sails flew with the wind, years of weather, dirt and soil having made its toll on the texture. The burned shacks were little more than planks of wood barely standing. None was left whole.

"Ain't nothing 'ere but death," inquired Rattleshirt as he fumbled a small skull with his hands. He dropped it into the ground without much regret. "They say the Old Gods cursed this place with ghouls. I see no ghouls. Only bones. Nothing but bones."

"You weren't really one to believe in tales, Lord O' Bones," Ygritte started, "and it looks like you've found your own subjects—all bones and no meat to show for."

A snort escaped from Rattleshirt's nostril.

"Cravens, all of 'em. Fishing didn't do 'em good either," he said lastly, gesturing at the pile of skeletal bodies, "we're leaving. The 'king' will be expecting us by then."

Before they could start moving, however, Ygritte spotted a shape, no, several shapes from the dull horizon.

"Lord O' Bones, look over there," she pointed out. Rattleshirt turned at her alert. His eyes narrowed from within the skull mask he fashioned himself with, trying to see. The rest followed in looking upon what the spearwife had discovered.

"Those are..." Orell began, but was immediately cut off.

"Those are ships," Ryk finished.

"They don't look like what the kneelers use," Ragwyle surmised.

And indeed, the taller and larger spearwife was correct. The ships looked quite massive even from that distance. Their hulls sported black and white stripes, making them distinct from the background. Others had black and red as their colors. Numbering in the dozens by now as they made themselves within visible eye view from Hardhome, each ship hosted three to four masts, each with square sails, and in between where them triangular sails. They were held with a complicated network of ropes and lines that managed to outline their shapes. The vessels seemed to be turning towards the shore.

Ygritte's eyes widened at that realization. Others were staring in horror as they too came to the realization that these ships, whatever they are and whoever they belonged to, were massive and heading towards the direction of Hardhome.

"We need to go. Now," Ygritte said to the rest of the party. "Mance needs to know of this."

"What's the use? We'd better run. If 'em kneelers knew of our plans, then it would be useless. They'll cut us down long before we can get a word to him!" said Rattleshirt, with his regular treachery and cowardice playing into his mind.

"Once a craven, always a craven, Lord O' Bones," quipped Ygritte, "we're going nowhere with you. Mance is King."

Rattleshirt gritted his teeth, his ears steaming red.

"All if you lot are insane. You belong to me! Not to him! Not to Mance _fucking_ Rayder," he yelled.

"We are Free folk, we belong to no one," Ryk followed, "but Mance owns our loyalty. We follow him to the South."

Still angered, he approached Longspear, "I _will_ get my warband and _will be_ leaving with them. I'll find a way south on my own, without Mance Rayder and his kingly nonesense."

The Lord of Bones turned and left the town, along with at least half the party. The other half remained with Ygritte.

"We head for the Thenns and alert Mance. Hopefully, they are with us. If those _things_ ," she began, gesturing at the ships faraway, getting ever closer, "do come ashore, then we'll need to let him know. We'll need the might of the Free folk to repel 'em. Kneelers or not, we'll make 'em bleed for the lands of the First Men. Let them come, and we'll give 'em a bloody jostle before we go down."

The remaining, _former_ warband members of the party made war cries and raised their makeshift blades, climbs, and daggers. The group made their departure away from Hardhome.

* * *

 **An Admiral**

He studied the maps nervously, unsure of what to do. The joint fleet faced a dire situation at their hands—they were lost, with no guide or landmark to hint of their whereabouts. It was getting desperate.

He didn't remember the Mediterranean Sea being so cold, especially this early into autumn. He held on the hope that it was simply a breeze, but then sheets of ice appeared over the seas. It was bizarre.

The flagship of the fleet, the _Bucantaure_ , rocked as its hull buckled and crashed against the frosty seas. The superstructure creaked and cracked as if it would all fall apart as soon as he moved. But, no, it was all an illusion, enhanced with this sense of dread and uselessness. With the fleet lost, and him commanding it, could it be that he had failed the Emperor? His orders were crystal clear. Bring the reinforcing troops from Cádiz, Spain and drop them off in Naples. Only leave under the condition that the English have fielded inferior numbers in ships should they start a pursuit.

This failure may be the greatest disaster of his career, and one that would mean his doom. He will be shunned for his poor leadership, stripped of his ranks, and sent home back in France. He was ashamed it all had to come to this. After learning about that an officer would supersede him, he planned to bring glory to the Empire. But, things hadn't gone according to plan. Leaving Cádiz way have been a mistake on his part, especially knowing that defeat was inevitable.

Collecting all the courage he muster, he sat up from the depressing state of his desk and donned his coat and cap. He slid it to the side of his for extra measure. After making sure his uniform was in order, he retreated to the door and left the cabin.

Eventually, he emerged from the stern of the ship into the quarter deck. It was crowded. Soldiers stood in clusters as they conversed with one another, shivering under the cold. Some wandered aimlessly, trying to loosen grip of the weather on their minds. Others were slumped to the deck, cold and tired. Medics and nurses checked up on them every so often.

The crewmen, on the other hand, maintained the ship—a nominal procedure during the course of the vessel's journey. They pulled ropes, hauled barrels, and went up the masts. The crow's nest were occupied daily, telescopes turning here and there, looking for a sign of land in the vicinity of the fleet.

Speaking of the fleet, it all but sailed on the same direction. It sported some of the largest ship of the lines in the world. In particular were the massive Spanish galleons, with its hundred-gun arsenals and frightening color scheme. He had to give it to the Spanish—they were once a mighty empire like France, but they overstretched themselves. While France gave up its colonial ambitions for now, it was the mightiest nation in Europe. It was without rival.

Side by side, the fleet of forty-one first-, second-, and third-rates, as well as frigates and brigs, coasted the waters in three parallel lines, each column containing between 13 and 14 ships. It was an irregular formation, but it equalized the presence of the vessels throughout its vicinity nonetheless. He managed that a straight line of ships would be disastrous—the fleet could be devastated if the opposing enemy simply sailed perpendicular to them and cut off sections of the formation. They would be encircled. He had heard that the English dog Horatio Nelson would be the one chosen to pursuit the joint fleet. He would not let that man catch the fleet off guard, not while he breathes.

He steadily paced himself towards the upper poop deck, the ship's wheel currently steered by the helmsman, and the captain right behind. Other officers were either roaming around to make sure things were in order, or, stood by the captain, making their observations and helping with whatever they can. Mixed with the command staff were army officers as well, who led the troops on board.

"Captain," he greeted.

"Admiral, you have come, we were just about to tell you that—"

"Land ho!" a sailor screamed from the top of his lungs, currently keeping himself at the crow's nest on the main mast.

He practically rushed towards the main deck and looked up, the Captain and officer following him. Troops and crewmen alike stared up. The sailor pointed towards the starboard side of the ship, into the dull horizon. From the white misty fog emerged a white-covered landmass.

He looked on and his eyes widened.

"Admiral! We're saved!" the captain beamed. He heard shouting from the other ships arranged in the formation. There were sounds of celebration and glee, both from the French and the Spanish. The _Bucantaure_ itself thundered with the claps and yells, hope returning to them.

For the first time since the event, Vice-Admiral Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve of the French Empire smiled. His hope and confidence was restored. Whatever he was thinking of at the moment was gone. He was yet to fail his people, Emperor, or nation.

The fleet will succeed in due course.

 _For France._


	8. Appendix II

AN: This will be the second appendix for the story, detailing the Franco-Spanish Fleet before its inevitable defeat in the Battle of Trafalgar.

Once again, I do not own anything.

* * *

 **THE FRANCO-SPANISH ALLIED FLEET**

 **Commander-in-chief:** **Vice-amiral Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve**

* * *

 **FRENCH VESSELS**

 _ **Bucentaure**_ **(Flagship) (Fr) Vice-amiral Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve, Capitaine de vaisseau Jean-Jacques Magendie, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de quatre-vingts (80 guns), 888 complement**

— _Scipion_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Charles Berrenger, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Formidable_ (Fr) Contre-amiral Pierre-Etienne-René-Marie Dumanoir Le Pelley, Capitaine de vaisseau Jean-Marie Letellier, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de quatre-vingts (80 guns), 840 complement

— _Duguay Trouin_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Claude Touffet, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Mont Blanc_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Guillaume-Jean-Noël de Lavillegris, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Héros_ (Fr) Capitaine de frégate Jean-Baptiste Joseph René Poulain, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 690 complement

— _Neptune_ (Fr) Commodore Esprit-Tranquille Maistral, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de quatre-vingts (80 guns), 888 complement

— _Redoutable_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Jean Jacques Etienne Lucas, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 643 complement

— _Indomptable_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Jean Joseph Hubert, 2-decker Third-Rate vaisseau de quatre-vingts (80 guns), 887 complement

— _Fougueux_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Louis Alexis Baudoin, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Intrépede_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Louis-Antoine-Cyprien Infernet, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 745 complement

— _Pluton_ (Fr) Commodore Julien Cosmao-Kerjulien, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Aigle_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Pierre-Paulin Gourrège, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Algésiras_ (Fr) Contre-amiral Charles René Magon de Médine, Capitaine de frégate Laurent Tourneur, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Swiftsure_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Charles-Eusèbe Lhospitalier de la Villemadrin, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Argonaute_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Jacques Épron-Desjardins, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Achille_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Louis-Gabriel Deniéport, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Berwick_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Jean-Gilles Filhol de Camas, 2-decker Third-Rate, vaisseau de soixante-quatorze (74 guns), 755 complement

— _Cornélie_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau André-Jules-François de Martineng, 2-decker Frigate/Fifth-Rate, vaisseau de quarante (40 guns), 410 complement

— _Hermione_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Jean-Michel Mahé, 2-decker Frigate/Fifth-Rate, vaisseau de quarante (40 guns), 410 complement

— _Hortense_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Louis-Charles-Auguste Delamarre de Lamellerie, 2-decker Frigate/Fifth-Rate, vaisseau de quarante (40 guns), 410 complement

— _Rhin_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Michel Chesneau, 2-decker Frigate/Fifth-Rate, vaisseau de quarante (40 guns), 410 complement

— _Thémis_ (Fr) Capitaine de vaisseau Nicolas-Joseph-Pierre Jugan, 2-decker Frigate/Fifth-Rate, vaisseau de quarante (40 guns), 410 complement

— _Furet_ (Fr) Lieutenant de vaisseau Pierre-Antoine-Toussaint Dumay, 1-decker Brig, vaisseau de dix-huit (18 guns), 130 complement

— _Argus_ (Fr) Lieutenant de vaisseau Yves-Francois Taillard, 1-decker Brig, vaisseau de seize (16 guns), 110 complement

* * *

 **SPANISH** **VESSELS**

 ** _Principe de Asturias_ (Flagship) (Sp) Almirante Don Federico Carlos Gravina, Commander-in-chief of the Armada Española, Contra-almirante Don Antonio de Escaño, Comodoro de navío Rafael de Hore, 3-decker First-Rate, 112 guns, 1113 complement**

— _Santa Ana_ (Sp) Vice-almirante Ignacio María de Álava y Navarrete, Capitán de navío Don José de Gardoqui, 3-decker First-Rate, 112 guns, 1189 complement

— _Neptuno_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Don H. Cayetano Valdés y Flores, 2-decker Third-Rate, 80 guns, 800 complement

— _Rayo_ (Sp) Comodoro Don Enrique MacDonnell, 3-decker First-Rate, 100 guns, 830 complement

— _San Francisco de Asis_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Don Luis de Florès, 2-decker Third-Rate, 74 guns, 657 complement

— _San Agustin_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Don Felipe Jado Cagigal, 2-decker Third-Rate, 74 guns, 711 complement

— _Nuestra Señora de la Santísima Trinidad_ / _Santísima Trinidad_ / _La Real_ (Sp) Contra-almirante Báltasar Hidalgo de Cisneros, Capitán de navío Francisco Javier de Uriarte y Borja, 4-decker First-Rate, 140 guns, 1048 complement

— _San Leandro_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Don José Quevedo, 2-decker Third-Rate, 64 guns, 606 complement

— _San Justo_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Don Francisco Javier Garstón, 2-decker Third-Rate, 74 guns, 694 complement

— _Monarca_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Don Teodoro de Argumosa, 2-decker Third-Rate, 74 guns, 667 complement

— _Bahama_ (Sp) Comodoro Dionisio Alcalá Galiano, 2-decker Third-Rate, 74 guns, 690 complement

— _Montañés_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Francisco Alcedo y Bustamante, 2-decker Third-Rate, 74 guns, 715 complement

— _Argonauta_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Don Antonio Pareja, 2-decker Third-Rate, 80 guns, 798 complement

— _San Ildefonso_ (Sp) Capitán de navío Don Jose Ramón de Vargas y Varáez, 2-decker Third-Rate, 74 guns, 716 complement

— _San Juan Nepomuceno_ (Sp) Comodoro Don Cosmé Damián Churruca y Elorza, 2-decker Third-Rate, 74 guns, 693 complement

* * *

— An additional ~4,000 riflemen and troops from Tyrol, posted in small detachments throughout the French and Spanish Fleets.


	9. Chapter VII

**AN: It was a lot of work, but I finally finished this chapter. I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

 **Chapter VII — Napoleon's Promise**

 _"A leader is a dealer in hope."_

 _— Napoleon of House Bonaparte, ? AC_

* * *

 **Claude**

Time passed rather quickly in the Elysian Valley. The settlement of the First Eclaireurs had been established in a well-mannered order, as was the case several days ago. As such, the encampment sported the immediate needs of the forty-four men led by the Colonel. It was all thanks to the scavenging encouraged by Napoleon during the Grand Army's campaigns, of course. He couldn't forget that. None of them could.

Claude met the morning with a slight shiver down his spine, the mild cold air kissing face as a breeze passed by. Some had managed to seep through the flaps. He rubbed his arms with his hands and made a deep sigh. He noticed small clouds of his hot breath. Even with the presence of volcanoes and lush, green forestry, it was still cold. A little better from their experiences racing across the Wasteland.

Claude thought about the Valley. It was ironic to him that volcanic activity, an entity capable of so much death and destruction, made it possible for the valley to exist. Another brilliant yet frightening attribute to nature and its ceaseless wonders. He also came to realize that man, ever since Cain and Abel, has decided for itself that destruction is the only path to glory and prosperity. And now, brothers and sister, fight one another until one triumphs over the other. It was a never ending cycle of death. Man was the true enemy of nature, and just like that, nature can destroy all of them.

The conflicts of man were petty squabbles compared to the divine creations of God himself, the Earth as a speck to the larger universe. Once again, it amazed Claude.

Despite this sudden surge of existential crisis, Claude couldn't forget about the Empire. He couldn't forget about the brave men of the Empire. He was sure that the Grand Army was itself experiencing some form of inner conflict, with the desire for survival and homesickness overlapping that. So, he has told himself every day ever since they have arrived on this world that it was for France.

His reverie, however, came to an abrupt end. Duty has called for him to lead the men of the First Eclaireurs.

Claude, now resolved as ever to continue this miserable life of hunting and being hunted by nightmares and barbarians and animals of cruel savagery, readied himself for this bright new morning.

He donned his uniform, overcoat, and brass helmet, a variation of the Empress Dragoons' uniform that he had yet to depart from, and departed the somewhat warm comforts of his tent. Before he left, he pocketed an apple from the side. Claude's pale face stiffened at the sudden assault of sunlight, matched with a light breeze that made his skin shiver once again, as well as the chirping of trees in the distance. His eyes had hurt, but as soon as it readjusted, he was able to see clearly.

The encampment they had made is coming along well. It was a concentrated mass of a dozen or so tents, surrounded by dirt mounds with trenches, as well as pikes surrounding the vicinity of the camp. The men had resolved to sharing quarters to both save space and maximize security. It was also done to build up more morale and fellowship among the cadre of elite cavalrymen, an achievement they had succeeded in doing during their first one-week expedition, and a second time while on their current mission. Claude was convinced to exceed all of those previous performances and create a true brotherhood.

Overnight, he had been brainstorming about the future of this small regiment of elite horsemen. Would the Emperor disband them after they had completed their uses? To be redistributed as commanders of their own respective divisions and squadrons? Or would the Emperor see the importance of the Scouts in the face of imminent disaster, when the Grand Army marched with an empty stomach and a hunger for victory and glory? The regiment of forty-five had grown on him, like a mother's love for a son. Claude would cherish the days he spent with these young and old, brave men, who had in all circumstances, upheld the core values and virtues of the standing French Grand Army, as well as the meaning behind the French Empire, the Republic, its culture, and people. So, what had Claude decided to do?

Assure that the Scouts survive of course.

Napoleon had taken it upon himself to save forty-five men, elite and skillful cavalrymen, to create a scouting party for the Grand Army. And mind you, the only scouting party to be given the accountability to map the New World in all its glory, wonders, and horrors, and the first group of men to be entrusted with the Emperor's heavily guarded secret ever since that heavy snowstorm. The Eclaireurs were prideful of that, to be provided with so much trust and responsibility by the Emperor himself, an honor none of them truly had ever acknowledged. The disaster of the invasion had left them with nothing to expect, but this brightened their hopes for a better future.

Claude had since decided that the Eclaireurs would endure time itself, engraved permanently in memory and history, never forgotten. The scouts were to be re-established as a Corps, the Éclaireurs de la Garde, that would remain in perpetual loyalty to the Emperor and his descendants and fall under the Imperial Guard. They would become the bravest of warriors, the strongest of fighters, the sharpest of thinkers, and the most noblest of the virtuous. They would become archetypes for the perfect French citizen: from soldier to politician, laborer to businessman, and piety to clergy. All would look up to those valiant men, the protectors of the Empire and the Emperor, the shields of all France and her peoples. They would become the True Heros of the Empire.

But all of that was for another time, Claude conceded, and returned to harsh reality. The Eclaireurs were short on men. That would have to change soon. When the time comes, he would ask the Emperor personally to vitalize the importance of the Scouts within the Imperial Guard. It would only succeed when the Empire is safe and comfortable, perhaps in the Valley, where conditions were better and the leaders of the Republic could entertain such projects. He would get more men for more regiments, and more officers and commanders. The Eclaireurs of the Guard will surpass all expectations and standards, even that of the Imperial Guard, and emerge as the greatest men to have ever lived.

It was already stored in his mind. He would not forget the sacrifices the Eclaireurs had made. Not at all.

Claude shook it off. Now was the time to focus on the task at hand.

He chuckled. The camp had no trumpeter, so no réveille would be called. That meant that he had to wake at least one of the Eclaireurs and convey along the message to awaken the others. Like a domino effect, the men started to rise, stretching here and there, breathing in the fresh air from the forestry. He some stomp on barely burning and charred firewood, perhaps to replace it later and prevent attraction of unwanted visitors, such as the natives themselves. The fires would only alight when it was time for lunch or supper, as well as throughout the night. There wasn't much activity beyond dusk, so the extra warmth kept slumbering comfortable.

Out of the forty five people in the camp, only fifteen were French, with another ten Austrians, ten Italians, and ten Poles. They were, after all, the majority nationalities that comprised of the Grand Army. For their respective nations to be represented here was not only an honor, but also kept the other cultures at bay. It promoted a deeper bond and connection regarding the struggle of man against nature. Claude smiled. This type of brotherhood was indeed a boon for the Empire overall.

Speaking of nights, Claude had set up something of a night's watch, if you will, and not in anyway related to the information shared to him by the Napoleon. There were four initial watchmen at the start of the night—one French, one Pole, one Austrian, and one Italian. In periods of four hours, they would swap with others, letting them rest while the others continue the watch. It was standard procedure for any army, and so, Claude introduced it to the encampment as well. After all, they needed to retain that sense of alert.

This time, though, they were relieved of their duty as the morning revealed itself and men crawled out of their tents. He approached one of the watchmen, a Maréchal des logis-chef by the name of Rémi Cormier, who saluted as soon as he was spotted. The Colonel paid back the salute in kind.

"Debrief me on tonight's watch, Chief Marshal," he asked. It was also necessary that he hear about any strange occurrences around the camp, as well as any traitorous actions by the other nationalities, namely the Austrians.

"As garnered from other reports of previous shifts, no irregularities were spotted, Sire. No signs of dissent from the other watchmen either. I believe our position to be secure unless we somehow lure out the barbarians from their caves," Cormier answered.

"Good. We can't have anyone backstabbing anyone now can we? The Eclaireurs must maintain its station, regardless of strife. Do you understand, Chief Marshal?"

"Yes, Colonel," the man of lower rank reciprocated. The Colonel nodded.

"Put an ease to your observations. Pass it to others. Now that we've observed them for a while, with nothing to show for their supposed machinations, my gut tells me they'll remain loyal to the Emperor's cause. Connect with them. Bond with them. They are our brothers now."

"Any further orders, Sire?" the Chief Marshal inquired.

"You are to go with Sous-lieutenant Lalande to conduct the regular patrol patterns around the camp. Additionally, inform Chief Marshals Boissande and Sartre to report to Oberleutnant Schlager for the hunting and gathering party for their morning duties. The others within our ranks have already given their mission statements. Food and water stocks are running low and we need ourselves to remain alive until the Grand Army comes to pass by."

Cormier nodded and saluted. Claude repeated the salute and the Chief Marshal made his way to the center of the camp.

With a pivot, the Colonel headed for the horses, their necks leashed to the thin stems of wooden poles. The forest's limits opened into a wide field of green grass and flat pasture that extended for tens of miles, until ending on the more central sections of the Valley. The scale was too massive for even Claude to comprehend. The gigantic equestrian creatures stood in their majestic forms, their mighty bodies walking about as far away as their bonds would allow them. Others were simply slumped on the soft grass or enjoyed nibbling on the grass around. Claude swerved his head around, and saw what he came for.

Hiver, with his chestnut coat and smooth mare, was resting on the ground as well, eyes observing the herd with an awareness only found in humans and domesticated social animals. The stallion stood up as Claude approached. Hiver greeted with a huff from his nose and walked closer.

The Colonel released a hearty laugh. He allowed his free hand to ruffle the stallion's mane.

He brought out the apple from before and handed it to the equine. Hiver, surprised and in appreciation, took the apple and devoured it without mercy. This made Claude laugh even harder.

"I'll see you later boy. I've got work to do," he whispered. Hiver seemingly nodded in acknowledgement and returned to his initial position, his body once again resting on the grass. Claude promptly walked back into the camp.

—x—X—x—

Claude, along with others, officers and non-commissioned cavalrymen, were hauling the massive form of a stag, oozing with blood after a trap had pierced it several times on the side. It was a gory demise for such another majestic creature. The men had seen it flailing about, trying to move, clinging to that very small hope for escape. They had to make it quick and give the animal it's rest. Using a dagger, a thin slice to neck sufficed, which was now a large gaping wound across the stem, still dripping some of that red liquid here and there.

Their haul was dropped on a spread-out sheet of canvas, the carcass making a squishing sound as it landed upon the cloth. The men were tired, red stains splattered on their uniforms, hands, faces, as well as little hints and droplets on the forest's dirt flooring.

His Chief Marshals had done well, coordinating properly with the Austrians to acquire a something as large as this. It was strange though—it seemed that the stag was larger than anything he had ever seen, for a stag that is. It was as big as a moose, in fact, that it frightened him. Yes, the game they had caught were large too, but Claude dismissed it as a lack of human presence. Now, larger animals appeared to be a reality. What were bears like? Wolves? Elephants? How about sharks and whales?

Claude didn't know. This was a new world, of course, and it will be explored in the name of God and the Republic.

The stag was the last procurement of the day, another addition to their supply. The bodies were skinned for their pelts and furs, which aided in warming their beds and tents, while the meat was diced for supper. The rest of the flesh were hung up on strings, loosely swaying on a game hanger of their own design, constructed from sticks and wood they had chopped down.

Claude could smell the sizzling of meat as it's fatty oil was cooked to high temperatures, skewered on several spits as the sunlight died down. Their meal was ready and everyone took part in the feast, happily discussing with each other personal matters like they were all the best of friends. Even with a lack of a wine or some proper ale to drink on, the men rejoiced in the blessings given to them. They sang patriotic hymns such as Le Chant du Départ andChanson de l'Oignon. As they reached the last stanza of La Marseilles, just as the last vestiges of the sun's rays peaked through the edge of the horizon, ears twitched and the songs had come to a swift conclusion.

Claude, immediately unsheathing his sabre, desperately looked around. He could sense it. The breathing and growling of other... men. Monsters hiding in the darkness of the void. There weren't alone.

"Sabres out! Now!" the Colonel ordered. The men complied immediately as dozens of blades slid of their respective scabbards, arms raising and falling just as quickly. The men started taking stances, readying themselves for an inevitable fight.

There was silence.

And then there was roaring.

The barbarians had come. God save us, he thought, as his mind went on a frenzy.

The deafening shrieks of savages and uncivilized men came closer and closer until dark silhouettes emerged from the darkness of the forest. Weapons of various shapes and sizes were raised up high as the foreigners screamed, a bloodlust Claude had come to realize. They came from all sides, rushing into the camp with no remorse.

It was only a few moments before the entire scene had devolved into a battlefield. Only through iron will did the Eclaireurs remained strong and stubborn against the wave of vagrants that had come to assault their settlement.

Claude was thrown into the fray, his eyes frantically moving from left to right for any attackers. Everyone was occupied with their own corners of the fight, slicing and hacking their way on the barbarians. Three of the vagabonds had decided that he was their prey and took after him. One of them attacked with a mighty roar, followed by a sloppy swing of a stone axe, barely held together with ropes and rotten threads. He easily dodged this and pushed the hammer away, the barbarian loosing his balance with a grant and landing on the forest ground. At the same time, one of his companions made the effort of attack as well, bring down a blunt and rusty sword. Claude did not want to know the fate of those killed by a rough-edged blade, so he quickly blocked it and sent a swift slice on the man's abdomen. The fur was no match for the deadly edge of the sabre, tearing through the coat and wounding a deep gash into the barbarian's stomach. The man belched as his innards spilled into an awful mess of intestines and blood. Feeling that he shouldn't suffer any longer, Claude made quick of the man's death, snapping the neck as he fell on his knees. It made a cracking noice that made the Colonel shiver. This was too much. He didn't even know he was capable of this.

The two others were now furious about their fallen comrade.

"I'm gonna enjoy feasting on your flesh you fucking crow!" one of them taunted, but to Claude, it only sounded like gibberish.

The two attacked simultaneously, an axe's swing downwards joined by another sword's poorly coordinated thrusts. Claude fended off the assaults with parry after parry, pushing away the weapons as he carried out his own maneuvers. The axe almost made it home as Claude's brass helm was struck. Fortunately, the metal became only tended. He quickly removed his cover and prepared for the next succession of attacks. He went for the offensive, catching one of the barbarians off guard. Another poorly thought out swing and the attacker was incapacitated, his sword flying into the ground. Claude went for the head and blood spilled from the latter's neck. The man tried to prevent it, but a kick made sure he stayed down. The last barbarian wasted no time in returning fire, his axe fast coming. Claude had thought it was over, raising his sabre in a futile attempt to deflect the attack. He closed his eyes, willing to meet his end.

But it did not come, for a sudden thunder erupted from faraway. Claude opened his eyes to see a large, gaping hole pulsating, with more blood and damaged flesh than anyone can think of, between the savage's eyes. It was a brutal sight, but the deed was done. The man fell into the grass, blood still oozing from the head.

He looked around as more gunfire erupted from the camp. Here and there, officers and those of lower rank used a mixture of sabres, pistols, and carbines to protect the camp from the further waves of tribesmen. Barbarians dropped like flies here and there as there guys and brains were blown off their coated bodies, carnage spilling everywhere. Might as well as join them, he thought, inspecting the fire everywhere. He raised his sabre and dashed into action, striking the routing barbarians while their fellow compatriots died of wounds from the guns. They were confused, scared, and terrified of the new appearance of such sorcery, so they ran, unsure of what to do and too frightened to think it through.

Claude carved bones and flesh, making good work of the barbarians who dared attack their encampment. With a roar, the French, Austrians, Italians, and Poles screamed their war-cries as they charged outwards from the center of the camp, with sabre and carabiners in hand, firing and stabbing on the unruly men. The barbarians had dispersed, even more terrified. They disappeared into the darkness once again, never daring to return.

The men cheered in their victory, joined by their Colonel as well.

"Vive l'Empereur! Vive la France!" the French bellowed.

"Sieg!" the Austrians answered with a mighty chorus, "Sieg für den Kaiser!"

The Italians and Poles followed with their own rejoicing of victory, in the face of a totally larger belligerent of enemies. The night was won, and as dawn approached, so was the day grasped in their astonishing achievement.

Claude smiled. The Eclaireurs were elites, and so, there were no casualties. Their first round with those barbarians wouldn't be the last one. But today, let the men enjoy their triumph.

* * *

 **Mance**

The King-Beyond-the-Wall coursed through his memories of days before, as the massive amalgamation of foreigners marched northwards. He and Loboda, as well as other Thenn warriors, were attached to the Northern Flank of the "French Grand Army" as Mance had come to calling it. The alliance was made only recently, but already, cracks had began to appear regardless of how youthful the "treaty" may have been. The Thenn were cautious in their interaction with the foreigners, and vice versa. The 10th Army Corps seemed to reciprocate that same feeling of uneasiness and distrust. Yet, Mance knew it was for the good of the Free folk. This was their only chance of getting past the Wall without much trouble.

Currently, the Army has decided to split. Mance has directed Tormund Giantsbane and the rest of his retinue to guide the main body of the French Grand Army, headed by the Napoleon himself, towards Skirling Pass, were most of the Free folk had gathered, making preparations for their eventual passage south of the Wall. Mance had recalled that he had sent the Lord of Bones east, towards Storrold's Point, leading a small contingent of his warband, to see to it that Hardhome could settled. Mance has wanted a better base of operations and starting point for the Operation—closer to the weaker stronghold of the Eastwatch-By-the-Sea and more accessible to needed resources. Men could both hunt and fish.

While Tormund would help the Emperor get to the Pass, with the aid of a translator, and as far as Mance has remembered, the man was called Charles, the X Corps was to be led by "Marshals" Davoust and MacDonald towards the Thenn Valley, for three distinct reasons: recover the scouting forces settled there, gather as much supplies as possible, and establish diplomatic ties and agreements with the Magnar. Even if he has managed to get Styr's agreement to following him as King-Beyond-the-Wall, it would much more difficult in having to deal with the Magnar should it concern an alliance with foreigners. Already aware of such a circumstance, Mance was resolved to convincing the leader of the most advanced tribe of Free folk in the lands beyond the Wall that they needed this. For the good of all.

Speaking of the "treaty", or whatever that term entails, Mance was met with very generous conditions when he had encountered this Napoleon figure, the supposed Emperor of the French. What he saw was a man of about average height, a stern and confident expression that permanently hiding the true personality of a grand strategist and cunning tactician. He had eyes that yelled out ambition, scheming, plots, and grand plans. This man, he knew, was an ambitious visionary that could no doubt tip the balance in every possible way. He had heard from Maester Aemon of the ways of the south, with their petty kingdoms and wars for an iron throne, with their houses and honor and titles as well as tales of knights and pretty maidens, it had made no sense to Mance, who had, in the majority of life, lived amongst criminals and men who were considered spares in the eyes of the fathers. This Napoleon could change that. He carried an aura that irradiated power, control, and respect, that appreciated merit over name or position in society.

In addition to the formidable Emperor, he had the honor of having closer interactions with the ever so intriguing Louis-Nicolas Davoust, which Napoleon has proclaimed as the official mediator of the "Franco-Thennic Confederation." He didn't quite understand the use of the Thenn name to represent all the Free folk, but it came to him that his people lacked a real name to proudly call themselves, one that would successively describe the direct descendants of the First Men. On the plus side, there were no other recorded encounter between the Free folk and the Grand Army with the exception of their alliance and that encounter near the Valley. Davoust was carried a personality that coincided with Napoleon's own, a no-nonsense attitude that the King greatly appreciated. At least not all men around were foolhardy and inept leaders.

Mance had developed a great sense of respect for such both men, whom had allowed himself to ally with what the Seven Kingdoms call savages, and had promised them their place in the south. He remembered what the Emperor has declared: Aid me in my conquest, he said, and you shall be blessed with my gratitude. I promise you with that. You will see your people thrive alongside my Empire.

The terms were simple: the Free folk would aid the Grand Army in conquering Westeros, to establish an empire like no other. The next Aegon the Conqueror, but instead of dragons, weapons that roared and breathed death and destruction like dragons. In return, they would have free passage south, to do whatever it is they want. Mance had wanted to reveal to him then and there about the danger of the Others and the devastation that they will leave in their path. As soon as the Free folk was safe, only then will the true preparations would be made for the coming of the Long Night. The next Battle for the Dawn would be soon upon them. The Free folk will stand guard, whoever it is that is willing, to defend man to their last

In addition to their discussion of alliances was the fact that they were foreigners, from another world. Napoleon had explained to him that they come from a world where the common folk had began to rise against their lords and kings, breaking their chains and making their own destinies. The French Republic, and the French Empire, was one of many such realms to have risen up, the people deposing their tyrannical rulers and set about a series of events that Mance could only dream of. It was what the Free folk had wanted: the government made and ruled by the people and for the people. But the Free folk had been left to fend for themselves, in the wintry wastelands beyond the Wall, kept from their true place in the world. A world where they deserved just as much peace and prosperity as my other realm or race of man, and protection from the monsters within and without.

Indeed, the Old Gods has witnessed that man needs all the help it can get, and used their divine powers to transport an army, much more advanced and much more stronger than any before conceived, to north of the Wall, where it could aid the last true descendants of the First Men.

Mance finally returned from his thoughts and scanned the surroundings. It was way past noon and the the sky had grown orange. His steed, a stallion kindly provided by the ever so illustrious Davoust. Loboda and his Thenn counterparts were lucky enough to be extended a similar sense of hospitality after walking the entire way. They were still stealing glances on the foreigners, and then Mance himself, watching furiously and angrily as the King-Beyond-the-Wall may have as we signed way their sovereignty.

In the eve of dusk, when the the X Corps had made encampment for the night, Mance and his company was cordially invited to observe a demonstration. Mance, actually willing to see this "weapons" in action, hastily agreed. Loboda and the Thenn had reluctantly joined the King-Beyond-the-Wall. He looked on at the field, where a fusilier company was arranged into a line formation of four ranks, a hundred yards away and parallel to a pile of horse carcasses. Frozen to death, he said, as the night before had taken their lives away. They were stored for food.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Orders were given out in a language that was still unfathomable to him. When he tried to pronounce any of the words, it didn't sound right and didn't roll of his tongue quite well. Shaking his head, he focused back on the scene, intent on learning about their spear-like sticks.

The fusiliers of the line, with their blue coats of red piped white collar and cuffs, white piped red lapels, blue piped red cuff flaps and shoulder straps, white turnbacks piped red, and brass buttons, matching with shakos made of black felt, chevron on the side and visor, a brass diamond shaped plate stamped with the Imperial eagle over the unit's regimental number, white cords, and brass chin scales proved to be an impressive scene that depicted experienced and veteran soldiers, a concentration of determination, self-restraint, volition, and bravery. There was a feeling of majesty in seeing the disciplined men lined up in such a fashion. They rammed into their respective weapons with metallic rods, placing small ball-like ammunition and a packet of a strange combustible called black powder.

The weapons, known as a "musket", were held up high and pointed towards the carcasses. He didn't expect any further, since Mance had yet to actually see it in action. Another order came out and chaos proliferated around his ears.

The thunderous roars of what sounded like a thousand storms all releasing their night in simultaneous order rendered his ears ringing, having been assaulted with various sound waves that were unfamiliar to his body. The Thenn retinue covered their ears as well, eyes closed as they quickly ducked and panicked. Mance saw Loboda's eyes—there was a nervousness and trepidation on his pupils, a sensation that unfurled dread. The Free folk were now confused and scared at the same time. It was all too much.

As the muskets roared their terrifying howls, fire erupted and jolted from said weapons, a quick explosion of gases and force that was unknown to the wildlings. And then he raced his sights towards the carcasses. Mance saw horror.

The bodies were blown to smithereens as seemingly invisible projectiles made their work, tearing flesh and bones apart. The still preserved blood sloshed into various directions, landing on the snow's white sheet. It was too quick and rapid, a procession of events that was hard even for Mance to grasp. This was something else entirely.

As if the destruction of the horse carcasses weren't enough, Mance to his shock found the foreigners hauling a large metallic barrel on wheels, pulled by horses. The men aimed the large queer object toward the shredded flesh of the dead animals. The company retreated away.

There was a signal to fire.

There was some silence as the men near the object lighted a fuse at the end of the barrel, and impulsively covered their ears.

Another reverberant sound was expelled from the weapon, but this time, louder than anything Mance had ever heard, compared to the thunder of cracks of previous. It was I describable as the ground seemed to shake while the weapon unleashed its payload, fire and brimstone ejected violently from the barrel's hole, a red-orange light blinding Mance's eyes. These "cannons" could literally wake up giants. It was then that the King looked towards the carcasses.

A tremor shook his very core.

The carcasses were no more—raining down into the ground with ash, fire, and flames. The flesh and bones burned to a crisp as the force of the round projectile made its impact, leaving a charred ground that melted snow and exposed a damaged ground. A small crater had formed that could easily fit a dozen men standing up-right inside.

Mance was at a loss for words.

He had found his Horn of Winter.

And it was terrifying.

And then, the King-Beyond-the-Wall realized that the Free folk, Night's Watch, or even the Seven Kingdoms combined couldn't beat the Grand Army. They had to make haste to the Valley and then rush towards Skirling Pass. Time was with them, and so was Napoleon's guns.

Napoleon's conquest was inevitable.

And Mance was either regretting or rejoicing at the prospect of helping such an individual establish his dynasty, one that has promised that the Free folk shall be safe. The wilding king counted on it.

* * *

 **Charles**

The only other person capable of speaking some decent English was, unsurprisingly, Charles, who in his childhood, applied himself to studying Latin and literature, in addition to his primary courses of physical sciences and math. So, he was fluent at least in a few languages, including Spanish and Italian, all of which originate from the Romantic tongue. It was truly fortunate the Romance languages shared similar meanings and borrowed words.

In addition to his new tasks as head cartographer for the entire Grand Army, he was assigned as a translator for the Emperor when communicating with their new friends. He did not know for the life of him why Napoleon was so desperate, in fact, that French has allies themselves with uneducated savages. He had no grudge against them, but it was still a strange decision. Perhaps it was their knowledge of the surrounding lands. Or for the manpower. It was a various, crisscrossing network of advantages and disadvantages that their Emperor has meticulously covered, reviewed, and factored into his grand plan. Charles knew that. And for that, the engineer simply conceded to the monarch's will. Nothing can be achieved by being idle and indecisive.

And just like that, summons became more complacent as the Engineer Park is suddenly assaulted with new work. Cartographers, civil engineers, and other men of honorable professions observed the land, making new additions to a copy of Minard's detailed map. With the Army marching south instead, it was only prudent that they apply more information. Crucial information. They required to report every day and every night, to examine lands and natural formations should it concern the movement of the Army. They accounted for streams, hills, and to their rear, the massive, sprawling maze of the "Haunted Forest." Even as they came nearer to the new goal, the crooked tendrils of pitch black barks and stems still made his back shiver.

Other parts of the engineering parks busied themselves with the portable telegraph system devised by Claude Clappe, using visual signals as a means of long distance communication. Instead of usually static brick towers, the system used wagons and carriages to move the pivoting shutters. It was ingenious in design and sophisticated in all manners. Sadly, he was not included in testing the prototypes for the equipment, and had been allocated to concentrate on his cartography, civilian engineering, and translator duties.

Everyone in the support services were busy doing their part, everyone had their uses. People labored day and night to help the Army continue its performance.

It had been a three to four days now since the Grand Army had split between the Northern Flank and the rest of the forces. The detachment of three-thousand or so took with them some companies of sappers, pontooniers, and many other support services. Supply trains had to be borrowed as well, and further partitioning of supplies until a more proper way of accessing food was acquired, probably and more preferably in the form of farming. Foraging has its perks, but no one could argue against a belly full of aged cider, or wine, and the roasted smell of beef in the morning.

He was sad to see Grand Marshal Davoust go, having been the one to actually approach him on the first expedition. Napoleon may be the mastermind, but Davoust carried out the orders. It was only a day ago when Marshals Ney, Berthier, Oudinot, and a few others had been promoted to ranks of Grande Maréchal d'Empire, raising them to a newly created rank with honors supposedly far greater than a normal Marshal of the Empire. Charles Joseph Minard understood why the Emperor had done that.

To avoid factionalism, the Emperor gave away ranks to cur people's favor, as was normal in his General Staff. It was clear that there was strife in the top brass—Marshals were not known for their ability to cooperate with other Marshals, especially in the absence of the Emperor, and when they did, it usually led to many military consequences. He was sure that Marshal MacDonald would act in ill-fate while under Davoust, who had been appointed temporary command over the X Corps as the Mediator for the Confederation.

This too, was a major problem. With being elevated to a higher responsibility, Davoust would be seen as a biased favorite of the Emperor, incurring the wrath of the others, Grand Marshal or not. Charles already sensed tension begin to arise, particularly from Grand Marshal Berthier and Ney. He had seen them a while ago, discussing about "bringing down the stubborn fool", but whoever that fool was, Charles did not know. It could be anyone.

It wasn't as if he saw the upper echelons of the Grand Army as an incompetent collective of men. They were skilled generals, tacticians, cunning politicians, and individuals of high standing that command respective, power, and even fear. They led the Empire to victory and he couldn't question that. But their lust for overreaching authority got the better of their efficiency when it comes to coordinating with one another. It seemed that the Emperor was the only one capable of discouraging Marshals from having themselves at each other's throats.

He resolved to keep his findings to himself, lest he too experience the wrath of the scheming Grand Marshals. It wasn't his fight anyway. That one was for the leadership to resolve themselves.

Claude returned to polishing the sketch of his work, making minor changes here and there for appropriate reasons. Nicolas-Jacques Conté's revolutionary lead pencils was one of many uses. Since the days of the French Republic, the people were under economic blockade, unable to receive much of the needed resources for some products. Conté had been ordered to devise a pencil that did not require foreign imports. And then modern pencil was born, the lead itself a mixture of clay and powdered graphite, encrusted within two halves of a wooden cylinder.

The engineer glanced around, the noon sun high above the grey sky, himself joined by his team of scholars: Javier, Piedmont, and Bachelet. The others from that campfire all those days ago were concerned with their own responsibilities, from the Artillery General Park to the Equipages, as well as the other engineering corps out there in the field.

When the work was done, they rejoined the hulking sea of soldiers that continued its march across the snow-covered lands. The mountains from beforehand, the "Frostfangs", loomed in the distance, the sharp peaks of the mountains towering over a river known as the Milkwater. His thoughts once again wandered to the past week.

After some civil talks with the barbarians, he found this Tormund fellow to be quite the character. He was boastful, arrogant, but overall, with good intentions and too jolly for the engineer's taste. Nonetheless, he seemed friendly to them, despite being from a different world.

"Ya know why they called me Giantsbane?" the savage said with a terrifying grin. The burly, red-headed vagrant told him of his various titles, from "Tall-talker", "Husband to Bears", "Mead king of Ruddy Hall", "the Thunderfirst", as well as "Hornblower" and "Giantsbabe." Charles had first thought the man mad, with his strange stories of having slain a giant, being tended to by a female giant, allowing him to suckle on her tits. The man had also claimed that giant's milk had made him large and would drink it almost everyday. Where he found this milk, Charles did not know.

Charles had inquired to him about the lands beyond the Wall, the "Free folk", and the "First Men." Tormund returned in kind, explaining that the Free folk are nothing more than a loose collection of hundreds of tribes and war bands roaming around the lands like nomads, hunting and gathering like the humans of ancient times, slitting each other's throats at the most opportune time. Others lived off the land in villages and settlements, usually within the confines of the Haunted Forest, such as Whitetree, or the larger towns of the Thenn in the Valley, as well as those of the Frozen Shore. There were also dwellers in the Frostfangs.

What intrigued him the most was the mention of the Wall, a massive barrier south of these lands, guarded by what Tormund called "the Night's Watch". It was supposedly built by "the kneelers", men who kneeled and swore their loyalty to lords, ladies, and kings and queens. Tormund said it was unmanly and only cravens kneeled. It sounded a whole lot like medieval Europe. Why the Emperor kept such information classified he did not know. The only information reciprocated to him was the one provided by Davoust according to the young man they had caught all those days ago.

Yes, he remembered.

Goes by the name of Will.

Unless the Emperor had ordered some information to be kept from public eye, there was something else at play here. ormund said it was a hundred leagues in length, and towered to almost seven hundred feet into the air. Charles was fascinated. What did it look like? Why so large? Was it used to keep the Free folk out of those 'more' civilized lands down south? Or was it intended for something else entirely?

The Chinese built the Great Wall to defend against the invading hordes of the Mongolians. What would be more dangerous than the Mongolians if the highest was multiples almost forty-five times? To Charles, he did not know.

The talks with the Giantsbane had been pleasing as he had learned much from their discussions. He did not know why, but Tormund has grown on him, big bag of air and lies he was. Perhaps another friend? Maybe. Just maybe.

While not entirely busy, he rode far to meet Will, Davoust's "ward", if he could be called that, and asked the boy some questions about the Night's Watch. The new member of the voltigeur in General Compans's fifth infantry division was startled at first, not entirely aware that another English speaker was present in the Grand Army. The younger man remembered him though, as that one man who had accompanied Grand Marshal Davoust in his visits. To his shock, Will demonstrated a cunning that only a few soldiers held. Though, Charles noted a slight problem with the lad. The boy sometimes fidgeted, murmured, and delivered some strange messages in his statements, sprinkled all over like puzzle pieces. All in all, Will remained intact through and through, having been promoted to Caporalin merely two weeks within appointment as a basic Soldat. For this, he was impressed. A Charleville was always on his hands, in which he either cleaned it or was inspecting the sharpness of the musket's bayonet blade.

He found out much about the Night's Watch, led by a Lore Commander Jeor Mormont, with various other peoples like Alliser Thorne, the master-at-arms, "Maester" Aemon, a position Charles had only surmised as a sort of book keeper. He did not know these people, but it was worth it that he should know. It could be useful for the future.

When asked about the Wall, Will was eager to talk about its various strongholds and forts. There was a total of 17 castles, with only three functioning due to an undermanned pool of available recruits and rangers. The only Castle to be currently held was the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Additional mental notes was useful after all. After gathering what knowledge he could reveal from the younger man, Charles offered Will a chance to learn some French. The blonde was all too eager to accept.

And soon, Will took some lessons with Charles, more than happy to help the boy learn the language of the engineer's homeland. He earned himself two friendships in the matter of a week, which was good. Charles was aware that it would be long before he would see Colonel Claude Testot-Ferry, the first of his closest friends in the Grand Army.

His racing mind had always strived for knowledge, to the point that he had ignored the prospect of friends and or family. His father was proud, but that was it. Charles only knew that his father died proud, but nothing else. He wished he had spent more time with him, and the rest of his kin.

Now, though, those up above have given him a chance to redeem himself.

—x—X—x—

It was finally in the time that the Army had reached what their wildling allies described as "the Fist of the First Men." An ancient location beyond the Wall, Tormund had said it was "an old place, and strong." The hill, as it actually is, sported a massive stone formation at the top, the crumble ruins of a once might castle that stood up above, creating commanding views over the fields and slopes surrounding it. The Fist also offered steep slopes in its north and west side, and a slightly less dangerous slope in its east. At the foot of the hill runs a small stream. The brook was a good source of some freshwater.

Fortifications seemed to have been built as well, crowning the top of the stony hill, and covering a large circumference around the fist-like formation. A ringwall of chest-high grey stone stood, with various breaches in its entire length. As such, it was all but in disrepair, owing to the lack innovation or necessary building skills in part of the wildlings, as well as braving storms and the wonders of mother nature over the thousands of years it had existed.

With another long day of marching coming to an end, the Grand Army made camp here, its fifty to seventy-strong bathing in the last bit of sunlight for the day. The other separated flanks had also joined good time, the Left and Right flanks arriving first, followed by the Rear Central flank, and then finally, a flow of human bodies that consisted of the rear guard and the South Flank. Tents and pavilions were set up about, hourly patrols all over the vicinity of the camp, while dozens of hunting and scavenging parties were sent out to collect whatever game or animal it is they could find.

Charles replicated the view over the area on the sheet of paper in great detail, recording the approximate elevation and scale of the place.

Under advise from the Grand Marshals, and a lengthy explanation from Tormund Giantsbane and his savagely cohorts of eight other barbarian warriors, the Emperor had resolved to only sending himself, his brother Prince Jérôme, a company of a hundred and fifty from the Old Guard, as well as Charles who will aid in the talks with the many Wildling chieftains, accompanied by their barbarian friends. In the next day, the Marshals and Grand Marshals were left in charge of the encamped flanks, while Napoleon's retinue left at early dawn. Additionally, orders were given by the Emperor to repair the fortifications of the Fist with pikes and logs to block off the breaches of the ring fort and create an outpost that would the first for the French. The place was ideal for a defensive position, providing cover for the crossing of the Milkwater, should an enemy force seem passage.

Tormund had informed that the Skirling Pass through the Frostfangs, named for the keening sound the wind makes as it blows through it, is a long twisting course between the mountain peaks and hidden valleys. With a little too much detail in his wording, the Giantsbane added a few descriptions here and there. Charles was all too grateful to not listen, as he drew his sketches and maps.

There were no grass save a few weeds and pale lichen clinging to life amongst cracks in the rock. The highest point of the pass is marked with a a stone archway. From the top there is a hidden valley, long and v-shaped, amongst the mountains. A glacier of ice several thousand feet high plugs one end, squeezed between the mountains. Under that icy height is a great lake, its waters a deep cobalt that reflect the snow-capped peaks that surround it.

The journey was long and difficult. The crossing of the Milkwater was much more simpler, as the stones and ice settled on the river bed were tall enough to offer a fragmented bridge. It took much time to hop off between the rocks, the crevices allowing water to seep through and continue its flow. For this, the pontooniers that were brought along had been forced to march back to the Fist, much to their chagrin, carrying with them loads of equipment. There day could have been spent on better things than useless round trips.

The Old Guard was more than skilled to take into combat the legendary shadowcats that roamed about the Pass, large black felines that were a mix between tigers and mountain lions. Tormund had said them to vicious creatures of deadly speed, precision, and the most silent monster to ever roam the frozen lands. A single shot from a Charlville had rendered the large felines as scared as kittens, running speedily up the slopes soon as the weapon had unleashed its deafening roar, which was amplified by the tall halls of the pass, echoing all over the valley. The men had feared avalanches to swallow them, but it was still and calm throughout their endeavor.

With their domination over the mountain felines established, they were no longer bothered by the shadowcats. Some have wandered by though, not yet familiar with the danger posed by the contingent of Old Guard veterans. Another blank shot was enough, done by just simply applying the gunpowder without their ball bullets. No need to waste ammo after all.

He remembered Tormund and the other Free folk stare in awe as the muskets made their work, downing a half-starved shadowcat in a gory mess, the head having exploded from a bullet's impact, tearing skull, brains, and bones, and splattering them within the Pass's snowy and icy corridors. The chieftain had then asked if he could use one the "horns" (the name which the wildling man had given to describe the contraption) as well, before the Emperor dejected with a prompt "Non." The man grumbled but conceded anyways.

It had taken them about four days to traverse across the crooked pathways of Skirling Pass, dodging encounters from mountain dwellers that were too violent and and too arrogant to actually join Mance's wildling host, as well as avoiding clashes with the said shadowcats as much as possible. Despite this, though, rams who also called the Pass home provided the entourage much needed meat, a boon for the guardsmen who had been consuming horse flesh for some weeks now. The bellowing of musket fire became complacent, but only rarely, when it was necessary to fend off any of the inhabitants of the mountains. Less so when hunting game, sabres raised and used to carve their prey.

Along the way, they too met sentries sent over by the wildling encampment to patrol for any crows or new arrivals. Usually in groups of three or four, many times were the French envoys mistaken for men of the Night's Watch. One of Old Guards were harassed by accident, earning an injury to the leg, stabbed with a flint javelin. The burry and crude blade only served to worsen the pain of the attack. Another had unfortunately broken his arm while being attacked by another set of sentries. Tormund had intervened in time, identifying himself to the patrolmen, and introduced Napoleon as an ally. The patrols were still skeptical, though, and Tormund's explanation clearly wasn't enough to pacify all their suspicions.

When they reached the top of the pass, they were welcomed with the grandeur of the hidden valley, and encamped within it, the massive wildling settlement headed and ruled over the King-Beyond-the-Wall and his council of lieutenants and chieftains, whom then took authority over the different tribes represented. A massive field of tents and huts built from animal skin, bones, and sticks occupied a large area of the snow covering the valley, cornered by several peaks and formations of dark-textured stones, superimposed by the bustling activities of the wildings, large animals, and... giants.

It had been a shock to everyone, even Napoleon, who glared at the huge monsters in confusion. Though, the Emperor and his brother managed to maintain their composure, it wasn't the same for the Old Guard, as they started to enter the wildling encampment. Many had cried "deviltry" and "witchcraft." The other Old Guards, infamous for their constant grumbling even in the presence of their Emperor, though Napoleon had given them that sole right due to having his respect, engaged freely on that privilege. They whined and argued, bickering amongst themselves in regards. Despite this, hulking beasts pounded their feet across the camp, brandishing massive fur coats and stems of evergreen trees. They continued on, not bothered by the ramblings of Old Men. Some still retained their branches, while others had some semblance of a spear, sharpened at their ends. What fascinated Charles more was their use of the larger, wooly cousins of elephants: mammoths.

French anatomist Georges Cuvier had said that these animals had went extinct, a concept not widely accepted at the time, and to this day. Charles was different though. He wasn't much of a religious man, as scientific research had resorted to using biblical explanations for unexplainable things in the physical and natural world. And so, he believed in Cuvier's conclusion, as there were no possible ways to explain the arrival of modern elephants from continent separated by the oceans to another. Charles had though he'd seen it all with the giants, but for mammoths to exist as well? He didn't know whether they were biologically or taxonomically similar, but they were still mammoths.

The giants, standing over two times the height of the average man, between ten to fourteen feet tall, had heads are thrusted forward from their shoulder blades. They have squashed-in faces with square teeth and tiny eyes amidst folds of horny flesh. Tormund explained that their eyesight is poor and they snuffle constantly, smelling as much as they see. Additionally, they have sloped chests, and their lower torsos are about half again as wide as their upper torsos. Their arms hang lower than a man's, while their legs are shorter than their arms, ending in splayed and horny feet that need no shoes even in the coldest weather. Despite the shaggy pelt of fur that covers them, they still worse loose articles of clothing, sewn together poorly and haphazardly. Charles observed them, using the mammoths as war mounts and beasts of burden, hauling large loads of logs or the occasional game from hunts.

"There's more of 'em up north, by the Thenn and their valley. They speak more of the Old Tongue, those hairless cunts," Tormund intruded upon his reverie, a horn of giant's milk on his right and axe on his left. Charles swerved his head around, only to see the man chug down the drink with huge gulps. Without much care, the white liquid split onto the barbarian's red beard, trickling down into his furs and the pale features of the snow. After only a few seconds, he stopped and finished off with a loud sigh, owing to his satisfaction.

"Giant's milk! Hah!" The wildling turned to Charles, who only wore an amused expression. "C'mon Charles, it's time to meet your new friends. Go get that Emperor of yours." The burly red-head patted him on shoulder with a mighty hand and went on, signaling the rest of the contingent to follow.

He hadn't even began describing the wildlings. From what he saw, the free folk exhibited the all too familiar image of a normal European, with fair skin of various tones, mostly pale, facial structures that resembled more of Anglo-Saxons, and hair that ranged from brown, to black, and even ginger or blonde. He could gather that they were a united peoples from hundreds of cultures, tribes, and clans that managed to be convinced by a lone man.

Their clothing were nothing more than occasional boiled leather or several coats and layers of fur, some equipped with queer pieces of armor and metals, others even wore full armor that were akin to medieval outfits of footmen. Helmets, metallic or of bones, were also common gear in the camp. Charles presumed that they were acquired through raids. Their weaponry wrought of stone, wood, and bronze, such as axes and flails, fire-hardened spears and lances, and bows of wood and horn.

Children played and laughed. Some were even sparring with one another, or skinning animals, or even brandishing bloody weapons from a recent kill. From an animal or person, he did not wish to know. Women, who were just as wild and as unruly as the men, carried their own weapons. "Spearwives," they were called, keeping up with the spirit of free folk independence. Other women chose not to as well. They carried on everyday tasks from cooking to tending to their children. The males did most of the dirty work, with their bows and weapons, pushing, pulling, carrying, setting up tents and such, raiding, and patrolling the premises.

The men were reluctant to continue, Charles could see, but these things brought only curiosity. This was a new world, coupled with its own billions and billions of mysteries, waiting to be analyzed and discovered. It was more knowledge. He hoped that the next few days would manage to sate his hunger.

Braving the barbarians—men, women, and children alike—the French escort moved forwards, following their Emperor as he was guided by Tormund. They earned numerous stares from the crowd: confusion, fascination, interest, anxiety, fury, anger, and wrath were the prevailing tones of the moment. Charles took a brief glance at the Emperor and his brother.

The lead monarch, his bicorne hat covering a thin layer of curly black hair, a grey coat to protect himself from the freezing temperatures, and a stern expression revealed nothing but a straightforward determination to journey on, no matter the cost. Hands folded behind his back, the Emperor once again held an authoritative aura that many of the wildlings seem to recognize. Prince Jérôme, on the other hand, held an alerted stance, his hand on the pommel of his sabre. Or was it his pistol? He didn't know. The Prince was too far away.

Seeing them confident revitalized the men's iron will. If they're Emperor was this brave, then it wouldn't do to disappoint him. The Old Guard were elite of France, the bravest of the brave. They would gladly surge against the henchmen of the Devil if it meant they fought for freedom, glory, and for the Republic and cast him down to Hell all over again. The Emperor's work as God's work.

They finally reached the supposed council of the King-Beyond-the-Wall, a motley bunch, arrayed at the forefront of a particularly large tent, yet small in dimensions compared to the grandiose of the Emperor's Pavilion. Charles watched as Tormund approached the group.

"Giantsbane, who are these people?" a wildling woman asked. The lieutenants around here looked ready to pounce at the slightest way harm was incited. Hands were either at the pommel of their clubs, axes, and hammers, or on their bows of hand-carved wood, aching to grab an arrow within seconds

"Who? These?" He wiped his nose and sniffed. Tormund cranes his neck towards the crowd of "Mance made us some allies. These 'ere are the French." The pronunciation poorly rolled over Tormund's tongue, utterly and savagely beating the term senseless. Charles cringed out how it was pronounced. He couldn't blame the wildling. English was a strange language after all, if not beautiful in its tendency power words from Germanic and Romantic literacy.

"And where is the King? Seeing as you managed to get 'ere without getting you cock chopped off and boiled by the Thenns, you either left him to mercy of the bald bastards, killed him, or he told you to head here," another asked, this time a man of a thick stature and blonde top holding a large scythe, his eyes red and watery.

"Weeper, didn't know you'd be here," Tormund asked genuinely, "I had thought you'd be down south, killin' some crows."

"I was, until the Lord o' Bones came by and told me he saw kneelers by Hardhome. Said that Ygritte, one of 'is, was headed for the Thenns to talk to Mance. We just tagged along," the Weeper answered, wiping his free hand on his face to remove some of the tears.

"Its true I tell you," one piped in, his face covered with a skull, only allowing the mouth to show clearly, sporting a beard that only showed his aging. The man was dressed literally in bones, with a giant' skull as a helmet and an armor made of exposed and dried femurs, phalanges, ribs, mandibles, and fangs of animals. The armor extended from his shoulder and towards his arms, torso, and the majority of his thighs. His knee and elbows, in addition, was protected by the craniums of some horned animals. It looked like it belonged to a goat or ram. "They were in their ships. Somehow and someway, the Night's Watch got help from them Southrons. I came to take my warband back and cross the Wall. Mance is taking too much time."

"No one will be leaving until we find out what the frozen hells is happening," the Weeper reminded his fellow warrior. The Lord of Bones, as impatient as ever, though surprisingly, chose to keep his mouth shut.

"So, who are they really?" the woman from before asked once again.

"They call themselves the Grand Army. Trust me, I don't know what the hells they are on about, but I know enough. Their 'Emperor' is here as well."

"Emperor?" the Lord of Bones asked, now encouraged to speak his part. His voice was low, but could be heard just barely.

"Don't know, don't give a shit, but he's their leader. A good man, from what I heard. Mance had been droning about 'em. Can't talk any fucking common though, thats for sure. They have a translator with them who can talk though, Charles," Tormund answered, and looked at the French engineer.

"Pardon?" he said in French by accident, trying to reorganize his thoughts. Their hosts' expressions went into varying shapes confusion and bewilderment. They did not understand him at all. He blinked and shook his head, removing the perplexed guise written all over his face. "Oh," the engineer added. Charles stepped forward.

"You stand before His Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon the First, of the House of Bonaparte, By the Grace of God and the Constitutions of the Empire, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, and Co-Prince of Andorra. With him is his brother, His Imperial Majesty Jérôme the First, French Prince, and King of Westphalia. The Empire of France has offered its allegiance to the Free folk under Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall. Your king has accepted our terms and an alliance has been established," he began and looked toward Napoleon, who also took a pace onwards. The Emperor slightly nodded his head in greeting. "The Emperor lacks the necessary fluency in the English language and he deeply apologizes for such an inconvenience. He hopes that a translator would suffice."

A request for the wildlings to kneel or bowwas expected, but never came, which only worsened the uncertainties of the wildling leadership. They definitely are not from the south. Charles watched in well-hidden amusement.

"See? Told you we're allies," Tormund justified.

"So, Mance has allied the Free folk to fight with these green cunts? They're kneelers! They look like fucking pansies!" the Lord of Bones reasoned. "We might as well wear dresses! We'll look real pretty for them crows."

Charles understood that clearly and felt a simmering anger rise up to his head. This barbarian had no right! No right at all! Just as he was about to respond with his own retaliatory insult, someone else had broken the brief moment of silence.

"You better watch your fucking mouth, Rattleshirt, or'll make sure it stays closed," warned Tormund. The red head took a step before the bone-covered savage made another retort, and then the same feminine voice entered the air.

"You shit heads finished sucking each other's cocks? Yeah? Then stuff it," the woman enforced again, clearly irritated. The men stopped, but Charles knew this wasn't finished. Not a chance. He still felt the tension in the air. She started walking, steering over to Charles.

"The name's Dalla, spearwife to my husband, the King-Beyond-the-Wall. And no, I'm no queen. I was just lucky to marry Mance. His type only appears in a few hundred years so, compared to the fuckers I have to deal with every day in this miserable cesspool," she declared. She examined Charles, who was unsure of what to do. Dalla turned towards the other chieftains. The translator merely looked about, not really sure what the barbarian women had intended to do or say.

"They speak the truth," the woman concluded, turning away from the crowd of foreigners.

"What makes you so sure?" the Weeper beseeched. "Tormund could have gone mad due to the piss 'es been drinkin' and killed Mance 'imself." The scythe was raised to the man's eye level, the free hand caressing the blade with much care and admiration. Tears continued to poor down the blond's cheeks, eventually reaching the streak of blond hair along the barbarian's jaw. "Let's just get rid of 'em now. It'll save us the trouble."

"Hey! I'm still here!" Tormund countered, agitated at the prospect of being ignored, doubted, and then, threatened to be killed for treason.

"No, Tormund wouldn't lie if it came to Mance. And Mance, places much trust on the Giantsbane. And the Charles fellow. He's not from around here, along with his Emperor. They look like kneelers, but don't at the same time. They can't even speak Common. That's telling you something. They're not Andals."

It made sense, from the perspective of Charles. Very good analysis on her part.

"We're foreigners, you see," the engineer asserted. He walked closer. "My people come from afar, so far in fact that you wouldn't comprehend it. Like Tormund had said, we are the French, and he," Charles pointed at Napoleon, "is our Emperor. We know not of your ways or dealings, or even of your enemies or friends. We only extend to you aid and cooperation. We do not wish to fight. Mance had told us you wanted to cross the Wall, so we shall help you do that with minimal losses to your side."

Many raised their brows while Dalla looked surprised. It really is genuine. "We'll continue this... inside."

"Aye," the Weeper inserted.

The entire time, Napoleon had looked on, unfazed and unmoving as the tribesmen made their judgement. Jérôme stood beside his brother with a similae iron resolve.

—x—X—x—

The Old Guard was instructed to remain outside and settled quite distance away from the tent. As they rested their aching knees and ankles, the Old Guard became apprehensive of the barbarians surrounding them. It was something of mythical proportions, as if they were witnessing history, looking upon their would-be ancestors. Any wrong move on their part could lead to something far worse than just a brawl. It could cause war.

Resolved in not failing their Emperor, the Old Guard stood vigilant, but at the same time, ignored the rabble and curses of the Free folk who bombarded them with insults. Those brave enough even tried to confront the Old Guard eye to eye. But the veterans could not understand. They can see their anger and hatred, but they could not understand. So the company remained silent, daring the savages to try something other than throwing meaningless insults. Their leaders had told them to control themselves while they spoke with the Emperor.

The gathered joint leadership of the Free folk army, from the major lieutenants to the most minor of chiefs, confined themselves within the large tent from some time ago. Charles was seated at the left of the Emperor, with Jérôme flanking him to his right. They were on logs of wood, the closest thing to chairs apparently, in this part of the New World. The wildlings had no masonry or craftsmanship, save for their ability to make from scratch their tools of war, traps, and their settlements. There was no sense of innovation, and he could, for a few thousand years. The Free folk were in stagnation, and there conditions will remain so. Luckily for them, the Grand Army is here.

The leadership of the Wildling camp introduced themselves one by one, arranged into a semi-circle that nearly covered the entire length of the tent's interior, opposite the French representatives. Tormund Giantsbane was standing from afar, at the backdrop of the pavilion. Already convinced that Mance chose the correct decision, he left himself out of the picture. He wasn't much for talking anyways.

The Weeper sat, flanked by his curved scythe of metal and whose eyes constantly teared. He's known for savagely killing Night's Watch rangers and attacking as far as south as "the Vale" and their mountain clans. The man supposedly blinds his victims before killing them or letting them go as a means of spreading psychological fear.

Dalla was beside him, who ready presented herself as the spearwife to the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder. Charles noticed a bulge on her belly, to which she tenderly rubbed or massaged. Along with her is Val, her younger sister, a beautiful young woman with blonde hair, the color of dark honey, and reaching to her waist, with sharp cheek bones, pale grey or blue eyes, and a slender body with a full bosom.

The Lord of Bones was in a state of rest as well, his skull helmet on his lap. The man was small in stature, but that made up for his explosive attitude and sadistic nature. Tormund had explained to him that the Lord of Bones, while an "irritable piece of shit" was still an effective leader of his respective warband and a skilled warrior as well.

Varamyr Sixskins sat next, a diminutive skinchanger who is accompanied by three wolves, a snowbear and a shadowcat. The animals were considered safe by the wildlings, but Charles remained with an uneasy discomfort. The snowbear was much larger than even the shadowcat, but was nowhere close to the size of the majestic mammoths.

Harma Dogshead followed, another infamous spearwife and wildling leader that has a peculiar fear of dogs. Additional chieftains include Karsi, another wildling spearwife, and Dim Dalba, both hailing from the shoreline to east, as well as Alfyn Crowkiller, Soren Shieldbreaker, Morna White Mask, the newly arrived Great Walrus of the Frozen Shore, Devin Sealskinner, Ygon Oldfather, Gavin Trader, Howd Wandererer, and siblings Harle the Handsome and Harle the Huntsman. Other minor clan leaders simply stood behind the assembled council, observing in great interest, confusion, or engrossment. The only other men to accompany the Emperor was the Capitaineof the grenadier company and his three Lieutenants, gallantly holding their posts behind Napoleon. The Emperor began, with Charles taking the more reduced role of translator. He avoided giving his own opinions on important matters such as this.

"I understand your concern," Napoleon started, "seeing as that we strange men in strange coats, introducing ourselves as friends without much to show for it. As Emperor, I provide with truth. Mance Rayder, your king, and I have come to an agreement. The Grand Army, in exchange for manpower and materiel for our continued performance, will aid the Free folk nation in breaching and conquering the Wall. This I have sworn and my word is my bond. I shall not break that promise. Your people will cross safely, I will make sure of that."

He stood and removed his bicorne cover, combing over his head with one hand. Napoleon turned to Charles and nodded at the engineer for reassurance. He could only return the gesture before the monarch resumed his monologue. Charles prepared to translate the words of his Emperor.

"I recognize those faces, of battle hardened men and women. Even perhaps your children. Your environment and world forces you to apply to your offspring the harsh realities of existence within a tundra of never ending frost and ice. What I offered to your king, I only repeat to you with the same enthusiasm and remark."

"You hate me for I am a foreigner, a man you know nothing of. My people, strangers to you, that you feel more apprehension than actual trust. It is not your fault. I do not blame you for that."

"God works through many wonders. And you? You have your gods. You have your idols. You have the sun, the moon, the sky, the trees, the forest, and the earth to honor for your very existence. It is a violent existence, one complacent with bloodshed and hate and gore and mindless violence. Madness and chaos. Yet you survive all the same."

"Either my people's God or your Gods has whisked me away from my home, to vanquish me to a realm of ice and snow. And for what reason? My men are dying. Defeated. Harassed. Starved. Tormented by unseen enemies who hide in the darkness of blizzards and snowstorms. They were savage in their efforts, slaughtering my men by the hundreds each and every day. I came upon this land, and to see it as a chance for redemption, I took it. Their Emperor has led them. And now, I stand before you to hand my allegiance, for a common cause. My people seeks peace and liberty and the comfort of civilized society. I plan to plant my manner on those southern lands, to spread my people, to expand my empire, to create a republic that will outlive even human civilization."

"My arms are open. Your king has accepted. Let me help you. You see the wall as impassable. I shall send forth my legions and weapons of great devastation. Let them come, that they may taste bitter defeat and the steel of which is burdened upon my brethren. I shall bring down that Wall for you. Give me good men and good supply, and I will give you the whole world."

A damning silence saturated the atmosphere of the encounter. When Charles finished his part, he probed his foreground. The men around him were seemingly entranced in a spell, various emotions and thoughts clashing in a great battle deep in those minds. Their eyes showed it all. They were looking down.

Dalla was the first to respond, finally escaping from her bewitchment, ascending from her relaxed position.

"Those are tall words from a man we only met a while ago," she japed, "and too many words. You drive a bargain no one, not even I, could see as unfair to us in anyway."

"You are a straightforward man, Napoleon, and an odd one at that. You and your Army wear clothing that are unfamiliar to us, use weapons unfamiliar to us, and carry a culture and language unfamiliar to us. For that, I can see the truth simply from your words. A crow would behead us without thought, but you Frenchmen, took time to talk to us. You are no kneeler nor Andal invader. I am grateful to have you as an ally, by the grace of the Old Gods of the Forest, and, by the trusted judgment of my husband."

It was the Weeper's turn as he stood up, either crying real tears at the moving words or just enduring the symptoms of his peculiar condition.

"I don't like any of you," the teary-eyed man admitted, "but if Dalla believes you, I'll believe her. I swore my loyalty to Mance Rayder so he can save us. I saw his skill with the sword and his way with words, and I damned well fell for it. If he has really allied with you, and you intend to help the Free folk, I'm fine with that. If Mance believes something is good for us, he's usually right. The Free folk needed to be united if we were all to survive. He's one of the few people that actually make sense in this fucking frozen wasteland. So, aye, I'll give you my trust, but backstab us, I'll make sure you regret ever showing your cunt faces here." It was a rather deviant way of announcing one's opinion, but it got some grumbles of agreement from the chiefs behind semi-circle.

"I'm with Dalla and the Weeper. We trust Mance Rayder. If he trusts you, then we might as well extend that courtesy to you, Emperor," the wildling woman Karsi interjected. "Karsi's sword is with you, by the will of the King-Beyond-the-Wall and the Gods... and if you shall ask for it." There were sounds of agreement from the crowd behind the congregated leaders. Eventually, more had joined the fray of accord, until everyone had voiced their rapport, all except for the Lord of Bones.

"You're all fucking mad," he murmured and stormed off, shoving aside clan leaders that too voiced their support, disappearing into the dull light. He was a minor defeat, none too important to the Emperor's cause. Surely Mance would sway him as soon things moved along.

"They've accepted, Your Majesty," Charles directed at his Emperor, "you have their trust."

"No, _we_ have it."

It was a victory for the entire Grand Army.

* * *

 **Villeneuve**

"Sire, the boats are waiting," informed Capitaine de vaisseau Jean-Jacques Magendie, his captain's uniform covered with a long, blue overcoat. He was flanked with two of his sub-lieutenants, standing just before the entrance to the great cabin, kindly and so graciously opened by the guarding Marines.

"Thank you, Megandie," he answered promptly and got up. Donning his cover and greatcoat as well, they departed from the stern with the captain, coming upon a busy quarter deck with crew and troops running hear and there, pulling ropes, and setting the ship to anchor. Attached to the ship's davits were the ship's boats. Longboats, to be specific, with a maximum rower capacity of ten oars, five on each side, and used for the primary propulsion of the ship's tenders. Villeneuve eyes the Admiral's barge keenly, being prepared to be drawn into the sea, along with the Captain's gig—ship's boats that were for the personal use of the command staff. The French admiral boarded the barge, and finally, with a slight tremor as the pressure from the pulley system were released, the diminutive vessels were lowered onto the frosty water, thrashing against the tumblehome hull of the _Bucentaure_. The white-on-black color scheme of the two-decker Third Rate was highlighted with the bluish glow of the surrounding bay, the skies a dull grey, and the seas itself dark and lacked transparency. The longboats held riflemen, sailors, and equipment, for the foraging and camping operations. Slowly but surely, the Vice-Admiral's longboat swerved away from the French flagship, and joined by other vessels of the smaller scale, were rowed by eight oars onto the beach.

The longboats ground to a halt as it skidded on stony shore, displacing some sand and gravel further up the precipitous slope. Boots splashed upon the shallow waves as the troops jumped off to quickly secure the perimeter. Equipment were heaved to the shore as well. Villeneuve was joined by Rear Admirals Pierre-Etienne-René-Marie Dumanoir Le Pelley and Charles René Magon de Médine as strutted forward deeper into the seaside, also flanked by their captains.

The scene was nothing short of disappointing.

The beach was covered in a thick sheet of snow, a wide landscape that stretched from east to west of the peninsula's small extremities, curving upward from an unknown continent of evenly unknown proportions. The cape resembled nothing from the maps, with the mass matching none of the graphs and illustrations from the stocks. Villeneuve's own collection of scrolls and books didn't prove anything worthwhile, but it did provide a much needed answer. They were no longer in the Mediterranean. They were somewhere else in the new world, far away from base and homeland. Why flat and dull, the beach was accommodated by sharp edges of stones in some areas of the shore while tall, daunting blackened rocks protruded upward, in various differentiating angles, distributed around the beach like marbles arranged in a random manner. The beach, deeper into the countryside, stretched and hugged a mountainous hill that slowly rose into a steep peak, also blackened with dark rocks in contrast to the snow. To the west, a settlement of some sorts was situated, hidden behind wooden palisades, in disrepair and neglect as charred wood jutted out from the permafrost. Villeneuve decided that an investigation was to be at hand.

Approaching the broken rampart and the gates, the breaches on the poorly maintained walls opened to a modestly-sized village that was all but destroyed. The sight had earned some gasps from his attendants, including Le Pelley who whispered "God save us all."

It was a disturbing spectacle. All the buildings—from huts, cottages, and cabins of wood and straw and animal skin—were burned to the ground, with nothing but ash and remnants of timber that had refused to give in to the flames. The ground was embellished with the remnants of human bodies that included scorched skulls, bones, and ribs as well as a nasty, pervading scent that penetrated their noses. It was a miasma so surreal and so disgusting that the men had to cover their snouts just to remain in the ruins. It wasn't recent either. It looked like the village had been burned years ago, but to how much, Villeneuve didn't know. The wood had become rotten and the skulls and skeletons preserved under heaps of ice and snow.

Down the slope, towards the seas, was a literal graveyard of various vessels, though, no larger than a simple fishing boat. The dockyard was neglected, with the some parts of the causeways burnt and having collapsed into the shallow waters.

Having enough, Villeneuve gave the order to withdraw. There wasn't much else here to see, other than the twisting path that led to the mountains and beyond. He ignored the passageway and went on his way, back to the beach.

As they closed in, longboats approached the shore, this time of Spanish origin, running into the ground, followed by troops and sailors hopping off while officers patiently scaled down from the tenders. The longboats were secured, while the soldiers spread about the area to guard the premises for any attack.

The Commander-in-chief of the _Armada Español_ , Admiral Federico Carlos Gravina led a contingent of the Spanish Admiralty from the small vessels, all maintaining stern faces that expressed nothing. However, a feeling of dread and remorse hung in the air.

Villeneuve recognized each of the Spanish general officers: Admiral Gravina walked beside Vice Admiral Ignacio María de Álava y Navarrete, followed by Rear Admirals Báltasar Hidalgo de Cisneros and Antonio de Escaño. Others escorted the through ranks behind the leadership, with some commodores and captains of higher standing. Currently, the only representatives present were from the _Bucentaure_ , the _Formidable_ , and the _Algésiras_ , while their respective captains took command of their flagships at the moment.

"Admiral Gravina," Villeneuve greeted calmly. Said admiral took a step forward, face still expressionless.

"Admiral Villeneuve," the man retorted in Spanish, translated by a polyglot beside him. Federico Gravina, compared to Villeneuve, was a far more superior naval officer, with the same innovative, strategic, and tactical mindset necessary to maintain a rank of such great respect and responsibility. All genius and decision in even the most chaotic and disastrous of combat and engagement, Gravina was rivaled only by the Royal Navy's very own Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson, noted for the same inspirational leadership, grasp of strategy, and unconventional tactics, which together resulted in a number of decisive British naval victories. He hated to admit it, but Villeneuve neither the charm of Nelson or the skills of Gravina. He was but a former noble, promoted to Vice Admiral because of his standing in society.

"It seems to me, Admiral, that we are no longer in the Mediterranean. North America is also a negative, as our maps are yet to provide us a valid answer. Another conclusion to the problem has been found, however: the fleet has found itself in a new land. The Arctic Circle hasn't been properly explored in detail. Perhaps we have wondered there, as in, here," Villeneuve informed thoroughly.

"I can't fault you for the ocean's current, Vice Admiral, but we shouldn't have left in the first place. We have warned you, by God, we have warned you. But you were too ignorant and prideful to listen. Now, our fleet lies in the middle of nowhere, with rocks and ice to keep us company," Gravina said with a stinging venom in his voice, a tone that was menacing and loathing. "You have doomed us, both. Spain and the fleet! Your incompetence has brought the war effort to ruin!"

It was a tension culminating from the initial start of the Trafalgar Campaign, and the indecisive Battle of Cape Finisterre only worsened that state of affairs. The Spanish lost two of their ships, an embarassment and insult at the same time as the French had failed to act accordingly. Soon after that, French and Spanish officers argued loudly in the war councils held in the _Bucantaure_ , and they rarely led to compromise. These conferences ended disastrously. There was always two sides, a balanced, and sometimes, uneven mixture of both nationalities, but Villeneuve usually had the last say in matters. Opposing officers couldn't do anything to protest, and simply followed the French admiral's whims. Several mistakes later and they were trapped in Cádiz, facing disorder and chaos as the British surrounded them in every channel or route.

The Combined Fleet of French and Spanish warships anchored in Cádiz and under the leadership of Admiral Villeneuve was in disarray. On sixteenth of September, Villeneuve received orders from Napoleon to sail the Combined Fleet from Cádiz to Naples. At first, Villeneuve was optimistic about returning to the Mediterranean, but soon had second thoughts. One particular war council was held aboard his flagship, on the eighth of October. While some of the French captains wished to obey Napoleon's orders, the Spanish captains and other French officers, including Villeneuve, thought it best to remain in Cádiz. Villeneuve changed his mind yet again on the eighteenth of that same month, ordering the Combined Fleet to sail immediately even though there were only very light winds.

The sudden change was prompted by a letter Villeneuve had received on 18 October, informing him that Vice-Admiral François Étienne de Rosily-Mesros had arrived in Madrid with orders to take command of the Combined Fleet. Stung by the prospect of being disgraced before the fleet, Villeneuve resolved to go to sea before his successor could reach Cádiz. At the same time, he received intelligence that a detachment of six British ships, had docked at Gibraltar, thus weakening the British fleet. This was used as the pretext for sudden change.

The weather, however, suddenly turned calm following a week of gales. This slowed the progress of the fleet leaving the harbour, giving the British plenty of warning. Villeneuve had drawn up plans to form a force of four squadrons, each containing both French and Spanish ships. Following their earlier vote on 8 October to stay put, some captains were reluctant to leave Cádiz, and as a result they failed to follow Villeneuve's orders closely and the fleet straggled out of the harbour in no particular formation.

It took most of 20 October for Villeneuve to get his fleet organised; it eventually set sail in three columns for the Straits of Gibraltar to the southeast. A strange fog rolled in, and just like that, the tides have brought them wherever they were as of now. The Spanish, bitter with contempt, has blamed the ineptitude and indecisiveness of Villeneuve by luring the fleet to its ultimately doom.

The Emperor never did receive his fleet. The British Invasion was never carried out. Unbeknownst to them, the War of the Third Coalition climaxed in a French victory.

But not now, Villeneuve thought. He could not bring it to himself to gut the man now, for the insult on his honor. Too many mistakes have been made. Too many.

He betrayed his Emperor and Nation. To disobey a direct order from Napoleon was a dishonor. Villeneuve has brought greater shame upon himself than Graniva could ever muster at this moment, for the man's rant is but a fraction of the flaws the French admiral is willing to reveal to the world.

Returning to the real world, the Spanish naval commander was still conducting a lengthy oration, the tirade escalating to yells and shouts.

Villeneuve remained silent. Once Graniva was finished with his verbal beating, his counterpart began to talk.

"It's true that I have made terrible mistakes," he detailed, "I have not been a decisive commander of the fleet. Now, the armada is lost because of him. I am a traitor."

The officers were shocked to hear the French commander accuse himself of treachery. Even Gravina was perplexed, stepping away from Villeneuve.

"I have not the attributes that your bare, Admiral Gravina. I have not your decisiveness, nor your ability to command effectively. I have not the words for which inspire your men in the brink of a fight to the death. I am but a noble, who, given the opportunity, betrayed my king for another. I gave up my name and aristocracy for my position. I became Vice Admiral because I was there, to exist, and to support the Emperor. I'm no commander or warrior. And for that, I am no longer fit... to command."

A brief moment of silence followed, and then erupted the shouts of officers and admirals alike. Chaos was ignited as the leadership of the French clashed with one another over the perceived travesty. Faces had gone red, fingers were pointed and placed on chests in accusation, and everything was bound to devolve into a nasty brawl—with daggers, muskets, rapiers, and cannon missile.

"Sire, you cannot do this!" Le Pelley pleaded, unaware that Villeneuve was bound to be ousted from his position anyway.

"The men! Who will lead them?" asked Médine.

"Silence! All of you!" Villeneuve ordered. The French conceded immediately.

"In my capacity as Commander-in-chief, I hereby resign from the position," he stated, "...and nominate Admiral Gravina to replace me in my stead."

Further yelling was emitted, this time between the two nationalities. Gravina was shocked to silence.

"Stop! All of you! Do you hear yourselves? We must not follow through with this infighting! How will we ever fight this war?" Villeneuve lashed out. They all stopped at his words, upon realization that they themselves are fighting like children.

"This disunity has gone on for too long. Please, believe in me that I only did what I could for the besf of our operations. Admiral Gravina will take over the command of the combined fleet. He is far more suited to replace me," he argued. "And as such, I trust he will do his duty well, by the Grace of the Emperor, the Empire of France, and the Peoples, for I cannot judge a man greater than me in ability and capacity, so help me God."

Villeneuve veered towards the silent Gravina, who, with a quizzical look, inspected the soles of his boots. The older man swung his neck upwards and looked the Frenchman in the eye, an apologetic glint in his pupils.

"I..." He struggled to compose a sentence and paused, taking a few seconds until he could form a proper response. Preening his uniform and covers, the Spaniard resumed his reply.

"I... I have... have said words today I should not have," Graniva confessed, "especially towards a forward ally such as yourself. True that we are, at best, friendly acquittances, but at worst, we are but bitter men who have realized our differences and are determined to slow one another's efforts any way we can. There is tension, as always."

"But today, I hear a man transparent in his faults. I have all but cursed the day you were born. I see now the fault in my actions. I have flaws myself. I do not want to see Spain face such an embarrassment, to lose its fleet to those damnable English dogs. I swore an oath to protect my king and country. Perhaps you did as well with your Emperor. And I am sure you wanted to leave Cádiz for the sake of our alliance and the security of the campaign."

"Today, I also offer my apologize to you, as a man and as an officer, whom is expected to keep his integrity and rectitude in the face of even the most unimaginable of disasters. Comparing annihilation to our circumstances now would be foolish. The Combined Fleet is still afloat. We can still lead towards Naples."

For that, Villeneuve smiled. Graniva stepped forward and held out his hand. "I will gladly carry out my duty, Admiral. Our alliance calls for it. As the good Lord is my witness, I shall perform in the highest service and to the best of my capacity, until I have done my king, country, and people the greatest service. And, for France, the noblest and bravest of our allies."

"For Spain and France," the other admirals repeated in agreement, both French and Spanish personnel in joint concurrence and understanding of one another.

"For Spain and France, my friend," Villeneuve gladly retorted and shook the man's hands. They rendered into salutes in respect for each other. After placing their hands down, the French commander continued. "It would be an honor and pleasure to serve with the finest Admiral next to Nelson."

"And it will be as well to coordinate with a man of your esteem," Graniva answered thoroughly.

"So, what now, Admiral Gravina? What will be our heading?" inquired Villeneuve, confident that he had made the right decision to give the command to the right man. The Emperor would be pleased in his choice to give it up, for the sake of the war. He was done chasing power and glory.

Villeneuve will now fight for France. He has seen that a nation is greater than the individual. He would strive to see his republic and its allies rise to dominate the world, for freedom, justice, and liberty.

—x—X—x—

After the confrontation on the beach, the French and Spanish retinue of naval officers had resumed the commands of their respective vessels. With Gravina now heading the fleet, Villeneuve only served to offer his advise and committed to concentrating the _Bucentaure_ in its employ to lead the core of the combined fleet.

Gravina ordered the fleet to head southwards, and hopefully avoid the patrolling of British Canada, convince the Americans that they weren't there to impress upon their sailors and purchase some rations, and finally reach the Caribbean to fully resupply. Admiral Le Pelley had cleverly suggested the course so that their supply troubles could be resolved, further train the inexperienced crews, and prepare Combined Fleet with better conditions, experience, and materiel. Within a few weeks, they would return to Europe and finally crush the unsuspecting British.

The race was afoot and the fleet weighed anchor from the frozen peninsula, and sailed downwards, towards lands they assumed belong to the ever so unpleasant and ghastly hordes of the English. The departure had happened a day after Gravina took command of the fleet, allowing them to have time to at least replenish some of their ship's stores. The men, using longboats, fished the surprisingly abundant waters, having harvested a variety of fish from salmon to cod, and even some tuna. Sailors had also sighted sea lions coasting along the cape.

Soon after that, the ship's cooks prepared a much appreciated meal for each of the vessels. The sailors rejoiced with a new-found vigor as tensions seemed to have improved. The men descended into slumber, while the troops took the night's watch, replaced after each shift, should the enemy, wherever they are, revealed themselves.

The night was peaceful, and in the next dawn, the Combined Fleet made way south, curving across the strange cape, while still keeping in view of the shoreline. With a good wind, the fleet arranged into three columns, as reorganized by Gravina, with the Principe de Asturias as its new flagship. After only an hour into the journey, they had encountered something far from strange.

The _Scipion_ , a two-decker Third Rate heading the middle column of the formation and captained by Capitaine de vaisseau Charles Berrenger, reported the sighting a ship close to the shore. With an opening between the spaces of the ships, Villeneuve extended his spyglass and brought it up his right eye. And he observed. Along with every other man that took the effort to see the reported vessel, Villeneuve was bewildered. None of it made sense. With his mind nonplussed, he scrutinized the image registering on his mind.

The ship, if you can even call it that, bore no colors, except for the distinguishable faded grey sails attached to two masts that extended to higher than even a brig's topsails, matched with an exterior that was as black as a raven's feather. The bloated hull was perhaps two to three decks, with ports that were too small for even guns. Villeneuve had concluded that use of muskets, or even, swivel pieces instead, but that was soon shut down with the presence of a few oars. The long, wooden paddles aided the propulsion of the seemingly ancient watercraft. It was proceeding towards the opposite direction of the fleet.

"Whatever could that be, Sire? It resembles no British or American ships. Looks like a poor man's fishing boat," one of the officers chided. Villeneuve nodded.

"Indeed, a queer one to behold. The ship is hundreds of years from our past histories, for it is a galley, one that has stood against the tests of time and nature," Magendie answered, "I have not a slimmer of knowledge as to why the dogs use such obsolete vessels."

"Could the other fleets have crippled the naval power of the British in this corner of the world that they have resorted to using the tools of barbarians?" another officer, curiously glancing at the other mysterious craft.

"Not likely," Magendie retorted and turned to the former commander-in-chief, "Shall we signal the Asturias, Admiral?" the captain forwarded to Villeneuve. The French commander shrunk his spyglass, hid it, and with a nod, agreed to Magendie's inquiry.

"Inform them of the new developments. Graniva will need to know of thus," he directed.

The wind had died down and slowed the progress of the armada, and the galley was too distant to be of any threat to the flotilla. Nonetheless, it was a matter of great importance and calls for the investigation of the Combined Forces' leadership. Villeneuve took a deep breath, appreciating the fresh breeze brought on by the oceans. However relieving the air may be, a sudden flow of fatigue consumed his body. It was weeks of stress building up, he knew, and he was yet to get any real sleep.

"I'm returning to my quarters, captain. You have the command," Villeneuve prompted and turned away from the forecastle, promptly set down on the quarter deck, and finally retreating into the comforts of the stern's great cabin.

Intending to have a quick break from the events of the day, his rest was interrupted by a knocking on the door.

"Enter," he replied, massaging the bridge of his nose to emphasize the exhausting nature of these week's past happenings. The guard belonging to the pair that stood posted outside his personal quarters peeked in, entered, closed the door, and simultaneously walked to the forefront of the Admiral's desk. The marine saluted, the gesture returned by Villeneuve.

"Sire, Captain Magendie requests your presence. Admiral Gravina has ordered that intelligence be gathered to the best of generation," the soldier informed after returning to a resting position, "...and he also wishes the war council to reconvene when the fleets drops anchor."

"Thank you, Soldat. You are dismissed."

The marine saluted and embarked from the cabin, leaving Villeneuve to himself. He affixed his covers and proceeded to make way for the sterncastle. Magendie was already there to meet him.

"Ahh, Admiral, welcome back. Was your rest to your liking?" the captain said with a tone far too sincere in its demeanor.

"I have only been absent for a few minutes, Captain, and it has warranted me nothing but the apparent weakening of my bones. I shall be fine nonetheless. What did you have to say?"

"Right, Sire. I apologize for the intrusion. Notwithstanding, the situation has been identified by Admiral Graniva. He has sent the Argusto intercept with galley, and hopefully, without the necessity of interrogation, probe it's captain and crew about the strange circumstances. The brig has also transferred one of the Admiral's linguists into its quarters."

Villeneuve stopped to think. What could all of this possibly mean? Motioning for his spyglass, the French Admiral acted to observe the procession with an intensifying desire to get it all over with.

—x—X—x—

After some minutes of painful waiting, the _Argus_ seemed to have returned from its task and, with a semaphore signal, passed the information they gave collected from the galley, which deviated from its original heading. It passed the French flagship, to return to its position.

"What's the news then, Captain?" the Admiral probed Magendie, eager to achieve the prospect of knowing their whereabouts. It should make chartering within the navigation room easier, after all.

"Sire..." the Captain of the _Bucentaure_ set about with a nervous air to his words, "the _Argus_ has said that the ship's name is the _Blackbird_ , as translated by the linguist onboard. They asked the captain, an 'Old Tattersalt.' A strange name, though, but the strangest thing they found was that none of them, not even the Captain, could understand their maps. They know not of Canada, or for that reason, the presence of even North America."

Villeneuve, who had stood by the sterncastle in anticipation of a much compulsory report, twisted his brows into a disconcerted fashion, discouraged and furious that no good had at all come from their query. "No, that cannot be right. We're suppose to be far up north, near the Arctic. Where is _Nova Scotia_? If this is some elaborate ploy by the British..."

"They spoke English, Sire, according to the _Argus_ , and they have given out that they belong to a 'Night's Watch.' No mention of the British colonies or America, in all essence. I fear they may be lying Sire, but that is down to their origin. The _Blackbird_ claims to have hailed from the Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, a castle and port located, as indicates by the name, the eastern fringes of 'the Wall.'"

"The Wall? What in the good Lord's name is that?" Villeneuve responded in questioning.

"A barrier it seems, Sire, but not much detail was included in its description," the Captain answered, this time, a little calmer.

"Signal the _Asturias_ , Captain, we need direction from Admiral Gravina on this matter," Villeneuve directed decisively, getting a salute from the Captain.

"Right away, Sire."

"Good."

A few more minutes of waiting and Villeneuve received his answer. "The reply from Admiral Gravina, Sire. He orders the fleet to maintain column, but under the guidance of the galley _Blackbird_ , will follow said ship to it's port. He hopes that some more questions would be answered by the authorities there, so that the Combined forces may be on its way to the Caribbean."

"Very well. Delegate the new orders, Captain. France and Spain awaits our call," Villeneuve authorized with a patriotic fervor, something he had only felt since the Revolution.

"With haste, Admiral."

With the intricate and complex movements of flags, waved at the nearest ships, to and fro as the _Bucantaure_ rode the wild waves, the frosted water wrangling with it's tar-covered substratum, the ports still closed, but ready to be used once combat came into sight. Progress was once again afoot as the Franco-Spanish Fleet made ready for the truth behind their disappearance from the aquatic extremities at the Cape of Trafalgar, where a fatal mistake would have spelt doom for the Emperor's plan to invade the damnable little island called Great Britain.

* * *

 **Benjen**

A forceful gale swiftly passed the upper crevices of the great, ice barrier that stretched from one coast to another, literally connecting the Narrow and Sunset Seas with solid water. In a manner of speaking, it was true. Towards the foot of the Wall, and resting on the snowy ground, was a large open space clear of any trees and obstacles that may seek to impede upon the views from above. It was impertinent to spotting any wildlings, should they suddenly gather the necessary courage to brave the incalculable hail of arrows and bolts, as well as scale the Wall itself or storm the nine-inch solid oakwood gate that guarded the only tunnel through the massive structure.

Benjen Stark felt the breeze pass his black hair, touch the pale features of his face, and chill his very shoulders and bone. The bellowing wind blew back his black fur coat, dragging him backwards. Though, he resisted with great strength as the powerful breeze threatened to topple him into his back. It was a futile attempt by the weather to bring him down, for as long as he lives, be will stand to guard.

His watch had only began a little more than a decade ago. Now was not the time to drop dead like flies.

Its always been customary for a Stark to brood, to ponder and contemplate the circumstances that has led to this very moment in their life. To question their actions, thoughts, and behavior, and scrutinize every meticulous detail set before them, from the surrounding environment to people of close relation, from friends, families, enemies and allies. To judge everything they see from right and wrong and act upon their faith and belief. The virtues that made a Stark, well, a Stark. And now, he was rejoicing to an effect, as the tradition continues to be passed down, all the way from the Age of Heroes, and more specifically, the rise of Brandon the Builder as the first King of Winter. However, Benjen, like all others of the realm, were doubtful of such mythical prospects.

Brooding was not the only reason as to why he had arrived at the top of the Wall in the first place, to revel himself with the dilapidated state of wooden poles and supports and their roofless ceilings, to embrace the frost and snow as he struggled to absorb what little heat came from the torched and braziers. No. There was a far larger matter that, to some degree, concerned his duty as the First Ranger of the Night's Watch.

A few black brothers has disappeared on their way to investigate the trail. Intelligence has it that the wildlings, for some odd reason, has decided to leave their settlements near the Wall. It was problematic for the Night's Watch. Either something was coming, or the wildlings tribes plan on doing something. Whatever they were scheming, it did not bode well for the Wall or its protectors and mostly involuntary inhabitants and tenders. Villages have become deserted and desolate of life. There were fewer encounters. Fewer bloodshed. Indeed, an unknown has been stressing the conditions of the wild men.

The whereabouts of Will, Gared, and Ser Waymar Royce were currently unknown. Ever since there failure to report back as soon as they had finished their task, another dozen that ventured out into the tremendously gargantuan maze of trees, hills, and rocks that was the Haunted Forest had also disappeared with no clue as to where they might be. It has been a little less than a month since these string of disappearances had occurred.

Benjen, resolute and adamant in finding his lost brothers, had decided to search for them and lead a ranging north. Turning, with his greatcoat streaming from behind him, he maneuvered his way from the high corridors of the Wall's upper level, every so often greeted by other men of the Night's Watch, whom returned to their duties on the battlements, watching intently for any strange or foul play from below. He also passed by other faculties, including the warming shed next to a wooden crane, utilized by the Watch to haul supplies or raw material for repairs and maintenance.

Eventually, Benjen rounded the corner, coming upon an large iron cage, suspended seven-hundred feet in the air, overlooking the sprawling landmass that was the Gift, a parcel of territory given by the Starks and the Targaryens due to their high esteem in regards to the duty of the Night's Watch. For thousands of years the order stood, protecting the realm from the wildlings beyond the Wall. Fifty leagues did the Night's Watch domain extend southwards, to provide for the tax and supplies of Castle Black, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the Shadow Tower. However, raids and constant pillaging by the 'Free folk' had rendered the rolling hills and forests, of which numerous holdfasts and villages called the Gift him, were left abandoned by its people, fearful for their lives and the well-being of their kin. Thus, the Gift barely provided for the Night's Watch and served no other purpose. With no one there to work the land or pay their share, the military order had resolved to depending upon the gracious donations of House Stark and willing noble houses.

Alternatively, a great switchback staircase anchored to the face of the Wall was an optional choice as a means of travel from the top and foot of the Wall, should the wince be unavailable at the time.

Benjen headed off and entered the iron cage, signaling the men below to lower it. The cage could hold ten men in the round trip scaling the face of the Wall, or their equivalent in goods, on many occasions, barrels of gravel. It was slow and agonizing, however, as the malevolent air would naught but torment you in your journey. It was a painstaking process that left one freezing whether they reached the bottom or the top, toppled with a lack of movement and feelings of claustrophobia. Attached to the winch apparatus, with great wooden beams embedded deep inside the frost scarping, the long iron chains uncoiled, rattling as it scraped across wood and ice, allowing the lift to begin its descent. In such a manner, the winch was powered with the strength of men, cranking the chain along a drum. No beast of burden had been used ever since. As to why, Benjen did not know. Must be the cold, and they fare better in the south. Cattle or oxen more certainly do not belong to the upper fringes of the North.

Then, he was closer to the place he now called home, so long as he lives and breathes. Castle Black, the ancient and main stronghold of the Night's Watch, is situated between the abandoned fortresses of Queensgate to the west and Oakenshield to the east. It was, for a very good reason, confined upon the center of the Wall, and connected to the northern end of the Kingsroad. Half a league down the route, the village of Mole's Town remains. Benjen himself had frequented the facilities provided by the settlement, and was amazed that it was not as deserted when he had first laid eyes upon it. Three-quarters of the village lie beneath ground in deep damp warm cellars and vaults connected by a warren of tunnels. Buildings above ground include a smithy, a stable and a small number of hovels with shuttered windows and wooden slats. A brothel exists within the caverns of Mole Town. It is said that brothers go to Mole's Town to dig for "buried treasure", euphemism for going to Mole's Town to drink, unwind and engage the services of whores.

To whore was to break their oaths, but that was the reality of the Night's Watch. No man can be celibate for the rest of his wives. The Lord Commander seemed to ignore it anyways, regardless of his earlier pleas so long ago, when he was but a inexperienced youth as he faced the true challenges when it came to manning the Wall. Naïvety played a major role in shaping his character and maturity over the Long Summer, and it has done him wonders.

The smallfolk there farm the land at the behest of the Watch, to provide for the village itself as well as the inhabitants of Castle Black, Eastwatch, and the Shadow Tower. As scarce as it is, it was sufficient in granting the black brothers much needed sustenance.

From the memories of Mole Town came the view over Castle Black, with its various stone towers, battlements, and timber keeps. It was no true castle, for it lacked protective ramparts to its west, south, and east. The layout enlarged through his vision as the winch and iron cage came to a halt, touching down upon the raised wooden platform that spilled over into the training yard, the main square of the fortress. New recruits and trainees filed into the yard, brandishing practice swords and lumber wasters to spar and fight against each other. The practice involved rigorous courses. At the end of the raised platform, the master-at-arms of Castle Black, Alliser Thorne, rested his hands upon the rotten railing. The man was quick to bark out commands, usually mixed with the usual vulgarity of battle-hardened warrior.

"You lot are the most miserable cunts I've ever seen. Put your arses into it!" Thorne echoed from his throat. His constant telling served only to agitate the men, and applied all that fury into their swings, thrusts, and dodges. Benjen pulled over to the master-at-arms, himself grinning.

"Ser Alliser, I see you're doing well in this fine morning," he greeted with as much courtesy as he could muster. The old man glanced at him with a look of utter indifference, and returned to whatever his eyes were busying themselves with.

"Lord Stark," Thorne remarked mockingly, the ever bitter and cold voice pervading Benjen's ears, "you finished brooding? Never thought you'd come back to the land of the living."

"I thought it time to distance myself from any further mental trappings. It can help with the cold, though," he replied. The huff from Thorne signified his wavering effort to continue the conversation. One of the men training fell on his buttocks, groaning loudly in the sudden pain.

The disgraced knight of the South, who served the former Mad King with a patriotic fervor and complete loyalty, turned and set about the stairs leading to the bare ground of gravel, dirt, and snow. Benjen followed suit.

"You fucking pansy! Get off your arse, now!" Thorne blared angrily, "Don't you know how to bloody parry? Seven hells..." The trainee was quick to get up as the master-at-arms continued his bombardment of insults, a vehement brutality within his eyes. Afterwards, the recruit resorted blind slashes, angered at the audacity of the older man to judge him.

"Instead of real men, we get thieves, robbers, and rapers. What a load of horse piss," the former knight complained, shaking his head, "they won't survive out there, even with you, Stark."

"We have to work with what we have, Alliser, there's no changing that. The Night's Watch has... fallen from grace, but it still lives," Benjen offered, "only in death will our watch end."

"Hmph."

"You don't sound too happy," Benjen surmised.

"I'm a pragmatic man, Lord Stark. I do not hope," replied Thorne, "Go, run along. I have my duties to attend to, and you have yours. The Lord Commander seeks your presence."

Without another word, Thorne parted and left Benjen to his own dealings. Relations with men such as Alliser Thorne was neutral at best, and at its very worst, deadly. A skilled swordsman and veteran such as he could bring down newer knights with ease and could be a threat to even the most experienced of soldiers in the realm.

He didn't waste any time, as he finally strutted away from the training yard and headed for the Lord Commander's Tower, one of the more distinguishable structures that made Castle Black such a unique fortress. The formidable monument served as the main quarters for the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, namely it's two top floors, while below were cells for other black others and an undervault, for captives and prisoners. He climbed several flights of stairs, slowly progressing to the top. Inside, torches emitted yellow hues against the dark and blackened halls, while windows along the walls provided some illumination from the dull light of the outside. Finally, he stopped at the solar's door, took a deep sigh, and advanced to knock on the door. A polite and customary gesture, yes, but a welcome one. Not many in the Night's Watch were educated in the intrigue and traditions of the court. Majority didn't even know how to read or write. It only enhanced his sense of dread towards the black brothers. There some fine men here, but then again, who could trust the promises of criminality.

His rapping of the door finished, the expected response to "Come in" arrived just as he had predicted, and Benjen motioned to open the enclosed frame.

The solar consisted of a plain oaken desk and chair, which was occupied by the Lord Commander himself, flanked by stone barriers and windows equipped with heavy drapes. A table stood in the center as well. Scrolls, manuscripts, and tomes were arranged on bookcases around the chambers. While bookkeeping was usually the task of the maester, it was also the responsibility of the Lord Commander to keep his own records. Most written knowledge, however, was still retained within the deep archives of Castle Black's subterranean library, which contained books and accounts even the Citadel did not have. An inner door resides in the far end of the room, separating the Lord Commander's study and sleeping cell.

Jeor Mormont, currently scratching away his feather quill, had his fur great coat mounted on the back of his chair. The atmosphere was silent and calm, and the room having a warmth that reminded him of the corridors of Winterfell. The candle stand's lit flame danced and flowed with a fluid movement, highly emphasizing upon the silence of the scene. Jeor remains an imposing figure in spite of his age, and most brothers hold him in great esteem. He has broad-shoulders and a stern gaze, having lost most of his hair save for his shaggy grey-white beard. Considered as a strong, resolute leader and a formidable battle commander, he was fearless in the face of adversity.

"Benjen. You've come. I wanted a word with you," the former head of House Mormont announced.

"As do I, Lord Commander. There is a matter of great importance, and I do hope you'll understand my intentions," the Stark retorted respectfully.

"Indeed."

The peace, however juxtaposed it may be to the Old Bear, was broken when a raven flew in and perched itself on window nearest to the desk. The avian, considered too large for it's species, had scruffy feathers, big black wings, and beady eyes. Eyes that held an ingenuity rare for such animals. The Lord Commander's pet bird had been a long time friend and reliable companion for the wizened leader of the Night's Watch. It is, after all, a clever bird. Perhaps too clever.

Oh.

It also spoke.

"Corn! Corn!" the raven screeched demandingly, which did little more than to annoy the Lord Commander. Much to both men's chagrin, the raven's voice was high pitched and it was a further irritation to the ear.

"Quiet down that racket," Jeor reciprocated, but that only encouraged the bird to nag him more. Finally relenting, the Lord Commander tossed some grain onto his desk. The creature happily bobbed up and down, hopping to the small mound of cereal. The older man's hands moved to give the bird several pets, in which it cawed, before he returned to the topic at hand. His face, as opposed to the cheery attitude he expressed when interacting with the long-time friend, dramatically transitioned to one of a serious note.

"Reports came in today," Lord Mormont began grimly, "...and it seems that our patrols have failed to find any sign of desertion. The lads found no trace of Ser Waymar, Will, or Gared. The Last Hearth, under our request, had also sent some sentries along the boundaries of the Gift. Lord Umber's efforts fruited no finds, however."

"So, they haven't deserted?" Benjen asked.

"As much as I doubt it, they are still out there in the forest, and we certainly don't know where they'll go."

Benjen released a deep breathe. They haven't deserted!He was happy that, at least, none of those purported to missing had used the opportunity to disappear south, never to return. Yet, he had the feeling that they were threatened by the wildlings and forced to join them. Or worse, they were killed without mercy, or even, left to die in the freezing cold with nothing but there breeches.

"That leaves their whereabouts beyond the Wall and conditions uncertain. We don't know if they're either dead, alive, captured, or defected," Benjen countered.

"And you want something done about it," the Old Bear offered almost immediately.

"Aye. They are honorable men. They deserve to be brought home, if any. Whatever their past crimes, whatever their inexperience, they have proved themselves as sworn brothers of the Night's Watch. I won't have them left out there."

"I can't say no to that. You have permission from me. But before that, there is another matter, this time of greater importance," the Lord Commander answered, "a raven from Winterfell has come to inform of us about King Robert's arrival."

Benjen knew where this was going. With the king's arrival in Winterfell, the Night's Watch had the most opportune moment to plea to the monarch to provide more support for the order and its efforts. Lord Mormont wanted someone there, perhaps even the Lord Commander himself, to represent the black brothers, and present the king with his case. It was perfect.

"Lord Stark has personally sent for his brother, Benjen. That would be you."

"Me?" Benjen asked, perplexed. "Why me? Would it not suit the occasion better that you attend the festivities, Lord Mormont?"

"Perhaps. But alas, Lord Stark has requested that you come. Stomach it Benjen."

"I suppose so. I'll make preparations immediately Lord Commander," Benjen decided. The sooner he left, the sooner he could come back and resume his duties. However deep and concentrated his devotion to the Night's Watch may be, there still lingers his longing for family. His father, mother, and brothers, and sweet Lyanna, all important. His nephews and nieces, just as much as significant to his mind, soul, and heart. He had made his visits, and after each one, he grew homesick in a sense, but was good in hiding it. The Wall was his home, but so is the rest of Winterfell and the North. He would protect his home.

His thoughts drifted to his nephew. Benjen, in all honesty, missed the 'bastard' son of his older brother the most. Regardless, the boy was a man now, he was sure, and all the more eager to join the sworn brothers since his last visit. Benjen thought it as a pity, to throw away one's life because of their status. He knew that Catelyn could have at least tried to be a mother figure to Lyanna's son. If she only knew.

Benjen knew about that whole debacle.

The forbidden love that split the Seven Kingdoms apart that killed his father and brother. The forbidden love that killed thousands of soldiers and smallfolk. The forbidden love that set about a fragile peace in the realm that could easily descend into chaos and war with a simple lie.

The Night's Watch provided him refuge from the petty squabbles of the southern kingdoms, and however that will play out with the affairs of the North. As much as he wanted to aid his brother, court intrigue did not captivate him in the slightest bit. Nor did answering and resolving the never ending problems of the smallfolk, bandits, and lower houses. The Others take them and their tomfoolery.

Jon needed to know soon, despite the lack of appreciable love and care in his life. Otherwise, he would all be wasting it away. He would not know the true meaning of family.

His train of thought ended, and compared to relative time, was but a quick flash in his mind that left as fast as it had came.

"I'll take my leave then, Lord Commander," he said.

"Do you duty well, First Ranger. The Watch counts on you."

As soon as he turned to leave and strolled to cross the doorway, he was blocked by the darkly robed and scrawny figure of Maester Aemon upon the entry, supported by one of his scribes.

"Ahh, First Ranger. I wasn't aware you were present right now. I'm pleased to see you this gentle morning," the hundred-year-old man greeted.

"And to you too, Maester Aemon. I was just leaving. Let me get out of your way."

The bald, wrinkled, shrunken, and blinded man shrugged off the surprise and motioned to enter as Benjen stepped aside for him and his aid to pass. Before he could leave, of course, the maester had already started on his report.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Maester Aemon?" the Lord Commander treated, while the still feeding raven roared with its beak in a similar manner of welcome.

"A letter from Cotter Pyke, my lord, from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

"More reports? Have the wildlings attempted to sail their way around the Wall again?"

"I do not think it concerns wildlings, my lord. Something else different is afoot."

The Old Bear was handed a small sheet of rolled parchment. The man came to unfurl it and read upon its contents. When Benjen was already in the act of closing the door, Jeor interrupted.

"Benjen, I need you back here."

"Yes, Lord Commander?"

"Read it," he said, reaching out the parchment towards Benjen. The First Ranger of the Night's Watch recovered and ambled towards the forefront of the desk. He too opened the rolled parchment and carefully inspected the writing before him. A few seconds later, he set the message on the table, unable to discern the meaning behind strange words and names.

"Who in the name of the Old Gods and the New is the Combined Fleet?" He asked, but got nothing as Lord Mormont only stared off into the distance, unable to make sense of the provided words.

A silence came upon them.

This changes everything.

* * *

 **AN: I haven't been answering reviews for some time, and I've lost track. However, I'm still open to suggestions and/or questions regarding the narrative. Thank you for reading!**


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